


Unknown

by thisishowithrash



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial, Depression, Flashbacks, I promise, M/M, Marco Bodtom Week, Marco Bodtom Week 2016, Minor Character Death, POV First Person, Self-Growth, Slow Romance, Suicide, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8493340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishowithrash/pseuds/thisishowithrash
Summary: After school had ended for the summer, all Marco wanted to do was join the Soap Box Derby Race his town annually hosted for the Fourth of July, build the best cart around and win first place.But first he received an ill-tempered boy who was only there for the season to remind him of things he'd kept locked away from himself.





	1. Traditions and Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so, I know the first chapter is Traditions and Holidays, but the rest are all jumbled up. I'm sorry, I'm an idiot I didn't pay attention when I started writing and mixed the categories up to different days. But I hope you still enjoy my fic even with that major mistake !

~Start with a doctor. The bottom of his eyes are puffy and wrinkled like wilted flower petals. The blood on his hands, chest and lap remind him of that painting he pretended to be infatuated with while on a date with a girl old enough to be his youngest daughter. And like then, he's asking himself, _what's the point of anything_? 

 

He sits there in front of them for another second before removing the red gloves that'd first been yellow. He gives orders to stunned nurses so young but no longer cushioned by fantasy and thinks that maybe this time, maybe this time he'll really quit.

 

"I'm sorry," He said. He doesn't remember changing out of dirty scrubs or walking to the waiting room where there's only a single other person that hadn't known the bodies, "I'm sorry."

 

A man, raised the way millions of men are raised, rebels against tradition and wails. His face, handsome as it might've been, breaks into shards that the doctor has seen only a handful of other times before. These shards pierce his spirit, tearing him wider into blackness that only knows how to take, and take, and take.

 

This will stay splintered onto his skin for years, but he won't quit. He knows he won't really quit. The darkness will fade to gray and then into a foggy white and he'll be able to move on, move on eventually because thank goodness this never happened to him and never will.

 

~Start with a three year old boy. He's wearing Winnie the Pooh slippers, his favorite Scooby-Doo pajamas and is wrapped around a blanket that came before he was born. He tugs at his father's shirt to say he's still cold, but he can't properly talk yet so he whines.

 

Mucus starts running down his nostrils because the blanket unfolded from the top of his little shoulder. His Dad doesn't have the strength to pay him any attention, he doesn't know why, but he knows better than to keep asking when Dad's face looks that way.

 

The doctor that went to go take care of his Mom comes out of a corner quietly, he's short and wrinkly and although he's got the same look of frustration all grown ups wear, the doctor scares him

 

"Ma?" The boy whispered. His throat is dry from the cold and no one hears him.

 

He really wants to see her. She would have fixed his blanket. She would have held him and known that that's how you keep each other warm. But his Dad said she was working hard right now after all his crying got quiet. His Mom always said he was a good boy and so he didn't throw a fit again.

 

"I'm sorry," The scary man said. He says it like the way his Dad does when the sky is dark and the food is cold and his Mom is dressed pretty but isn't talking anymore, "I'm sorry."

 

"No... awe God no. No, no, no, _NO!_ "

 

The yelling makes the boy jump in his seat. His Dad is gone, but somehow someone else – a complete stranger – has quickly taken his spot. The Mister is shaking and he's crying and Marco pats his back with plump hands all toddlers have. He's going to be a good boy until his Mom and new baby sister come back.

 

~ . ~

 

"Hey, brat, quit runnin' down the aisle before you trip on your laces again! Don't think I can't see ya when I've got this big ol' mirror right here!"

 

Connie plops down in his seat with a whoosh, passing right across from me and not really caring about what the bus driver has to tell him, "Yeah, my bad, my bad!"

 

"Heh! My bad he says. Damn good for nothing sons of—," She shuts the double doors with a hiss from both her lips and the machine, burping a curse as we start moving, "And you in the back sit'dan before I leave ya here ta rot!"

 

What are summers without the sense of being able to be as rowdy as possible when the sweet chime of the last bell rings?

 

The one's walking home have their sweaters swinging in the air or tied around their hips, popping, chewing and smacking gum that usually goes unnoticed during class. They're enjoying the heat from the sun on their shiny, greasy, unwashed hair, but no one cares if they smell because they all do.

 

The teenagers who already have their license are long gone, not wanting to have waited until the dragging buses got moving. But they feel that maybe they should have because then their classmates could've seen how grown up and cool they look with their windows rolled down and with their music obnoxiously high.

 

Behind car drivers are the car riders. They're waiting on the friends who've already graduated, or dropped out, to come pick them up with their college caps, exposed shoulders or working uniforms on and celebrate the beginnings of summer vacation. They yell and laugh to make sure everyone sees them get in only to wait in line with the rest of the unlicensed.

 

"Scoot over a bit, Marco, there's barely any room," Reiner tells me after hopping from his seat in the back to ours. I don't think he knows how big he is because he's always sharing a seat with me and Connie. How funny we look, three seventeen year old's in one seat that also carries the hinds of elementary children.

 

"If I scoot any further, I'll be sittin' on Connie's lap. Why don't you ever stick to your seating partner? He's ain't that bad to be around."

 

Reiner looks back, along with me and our other friend. Marlowe isn't mean or anything, he's just a little weird, but who isn't? His hairs the shape of a coconut and he sits so straight someone could probably iron their clothes on his back if they bent him over. He likes to randomly quote things from books or poems that I don't think mean anything, which is probably why people find him annoying, but sometimes it's nice to listen.

 

"Naw, he's not bad, but he's not my buddy either … Now scoot your tiny ass, half of mine is falling off!"

 

"Why the hell didn't you two stay after school today?" Connie squawks, I do too. Our hip bones were meshing into one another.

 

"Because," I groan, "Rei didn't want to and neither did any of the girls. They kicked me out and locked the door before I could even plead my case."

 

" _Ngh_ , why didn't you just take the damn key then?"

 

"Sasha … Sasha shoved it down her panties."

 

"That girl, I swear. I feel bad for the sucker that's gotta tame her."

 

"And I feel bad for the sucker that ends up with the two of you. Quit being selfish and sit on top of the other before I just spread myself like butter on your laps."

 

I look at Connie and he looks back. His face is pink and dripping with the season's heat, having no help from the open windows slapping our skin. His hair is stiffly gelled up like an angry lovebird's Mohawk, but soon enough he'll shave it all off for his summer survival.

 

"Rock, paper, scissors?" He asks.

 

"Rock, paper, scissors." I agree.

 

I lose.

 

"C'mere little lady," He laugh, Reiner sighs with relief.

 

"Next year, I think I'll stick to the front of the bus."

 

"Sure you will—ouch!" Connie shoves me against the front of our seat the second my behind touches his legs, "You got knives in your pockets or are you really that skinny?"

 

I dig into the back of my jeans and pull out one of the wood shop knives our teacher had thrown away. It had been wasted into a dull knob, but I can fix it, "Yeah, I got a knife in my pocket."

 

Reiner laughs an old man laugh, taking over where I had been as I sit on my friend. I think I'll only be okay doing this with them because they've been in my life longer than seven years. You can't do this with complete strangers.

 

"You almost killed Connie Jr, you jerk. At least let me use 'em first."

 

"Yeah, my bad, my bad."

 

He catches the way I'd echoed him and digs a knuckle between my shoulder blades. I don't know why book bags are prohibited on the last few days of school, but it feels like it's its last betrayal as I do nothing to defend myself against him.

 

Like most kids in Jinae, I met all of my friends early in my childhood. I have no siblings so I was always nice to everyone I met and did what good boys do and shared my things. We're all raised similarly since we live in a tight-knit town, so they were nice to me in return.

 

"Are you guys goin' to Eren's house today?" I ask, looking out the window. I count one Golden Retriever, three Golden Retrievers, four Golden Retrievers … There's lots of joggers around this area.

 

"I dunno," Reiner sounds sleepy, "we're having a cook out tonight so I might just invite all of you guys over."

 

"Your dad get that raise?"

 

"Yep."

 

"Nice," Connie slurps, "that means you'll be having premium steak. Marco, make that that thing you always do when we eat meat."

 

"I'm not goin'."

 

"And why, might I ask, not?"

 

" _Ladies and gentlemen of the class of two-thousand-nine, wear sunscreen_ —"

 

Connie sighs, "Oh there he goes. I was beginning to wonder if he was gonna make a speech today. Someone needs to tell 'im the two seniors in our bus haven't been here for the past three days."

 

"— _If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it_ —"

 

I rest my forehead against the swamp green seat. I'm too tall for it and it aches my neck fast, but I don't move. The wind blowing through dries the moisture on my skin and it feels like it could be someone's breath instead. I don't mind the vibrations from the bus making my teeth rattle, making my cheeks jiggle, making the bun on my head wobble.

 

I'm good at not minding things, and professional at distracting myself.

 

Every year during the Fourth of July, the town gets together in City Hall to celebrate. They host a half hour parade with homemade floats by the locals who put too much time and money into it, and the school's band gets paid in raffle tickets to march with them in the afternoon heat.

 

"— _The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience_ —"

 

"You're fifteen years old, you've got no experience!" A kid in seat twelve shouts.

 

Nothing ever really changes. Volunteers still put up a fair grounds in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot – so far there's been no accidents and that's a miracle I'm sure someone's always praying for. Mothers build food stands, farmers charge half a limb and soul for horse carriage rides, coaches throw baseball games, football games, soccer games.

 

There's singing outside where your stage is made out of hay, people drink, people dance, and you watch grown ups throw up when all their good times don't stay in their bellies. But I think the best part of our celebration is the soap box derby race.

 

"— _Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth, oh, never mind. You will never understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in twenty years you will look back at photos of yourself_ —"

 

I want to be part of _that_ tradition. I was too young before, actually I still am, but I'm hoping who's ever at the sign up office doesn't think there's much of a difference between eighteen and seventeen. I've only got one plan on what I'd do if they say I can't join and it's not a very good one.

 

"— _And recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine. Don't worry about the future or worry that know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum_ —"

 

"Don't go saying math words! We just got out of school!"

 

I really need to join that race.

 

"— _The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind – the kind that blindsides you at four PM on some idle Tuesday_ —"

 

A group of kids throw balled up paper at Marlowe, finally getting him quiet. The bus driver doesn't appreciate the trash and promise of extra work given to her, and pulls us over to stomp her way to the source of the canon balls.

 

Her necks goes red and I can see the veins popping from it like a strummed guitar. She's always this mad, and you'd think that by now we'd be used to her scornful flashes, but I'm still scared of her because she takes comfort in putting us on the spot. But I don't blame her too much, we've all been suffering for nine long months together and even I've gotten tired of some of the kids in here.

 

Because I don't want to accidentally make eye contact, I look out the window to see where we've stopped.

 

“Not again,” I whisper with fear.

 

This woman really must hate us. We're sitting ducks in the middle of moving traffic! And like before, the light ahead of us is as green as as the sun is yellow, but nobody's moving. Nobody's trying to pass a stopped bus carrying a load of whiny kids. A load that some fathers probably wish they hadn't shot.

 

 _Smart people_ , I think, tinkering with the knife in my hands to calm me down.

 

Well, I think that until a horn starts blaring from behind. Way behind. We all look back to see who it is, even Ms. Bunny who was busy shoving her sausage finger up some guys nose snaps her head up. It wasn't hard to find the culprit, the car stuck out like a sore thumb.

 

No. A silver thumb. A silver Lexus. We hear – and see – the tires screech as it backs up, almost hitting the truck behind them that could've demolished their expensive behind. The car snaps forwards and shoves itself onto the next lane.

 

"This asshole's got some death wish or something?" Reiner yawns.

 

But I don't answer. I watch as the stupidly brave and impatient Lexus rider passes us by with a middle finger hiding their face – flashing a silver ring on it to tell us he's too important to wait. Ms. Bunny just about pisses her pants right then and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wear Sunscreen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTJ7AzBIJoI)   
> 


	2. Bad Boy, Brains and Make up

~A best friend stands in front of his open door. He's watching rain the weather forecaster hadn't predicted create pond houses for worms, bug eggs and snails. Some drip on his cheek and stream down his face like a river. He decides it's time to go.

 

On his drive, he listens to the pitter-patter on the roof. It sounds a lot like the way some students rhythmically bounce the flat of their pencils against desks before they start beat boxing. He gives it a try but only spit flies out. Yes. It's pencils and students. It isn't the sound of the child he'd temporarily lived with.

 

That child is with his father now. It'd only taken four years for things to get better. It's amazing, really! You're strong when you can dig yourself out from a grave you've been trying to bury yourself into, searching for a wife and wanting to lay beside her just one more time.

 

Ah, things are supposed to be great. The best friend parks in front of the new house. It's a one floor, two bedroom/two bath kind of place with lanky trees hovering from above. The patchy grass is hidden in water, he dances around it with a box balancing on his head just to see if he can. He can't.

 

The shiny box falls down on puddles the size of the ocean, but it's OK, it was already wet with rain because he'd forgotten the umbrella. He had forgotten because of the ponds.

 

"Hanni!"

 

He wonders if the kids mother would have laughed at him if she were here. She always did whenever he did stupid things like this but now no one is laughing.

 

"Hanni, come! Come, hurry!"

 

The best friend looks up and sees a seven year old boy in a party hat watching from the door. Sunshine pours out of his toothless smile and it's bittersweet. Three years is a long time to live with someone. Three years makes you miss them when they're gone.

 

It also creates change. It appears the boy's hair hasn't been cut since the year they haven't seen one another, his frail body has thinned a little, but he looks happy. He looks safe.

 

Hanji smiles, he breathes, he goes in and apologizes for many reasons but only verbally for one.

 

~A boy sees his favorite uncle playing in the rain outside, getting wet on his head, shoulders, knees and toes. He knows the purple box juggling on his head is for him so he runs to the front door and swings it open.

 

"Hanni!" He yelled. The box has fallen but it's OK, his Uncle is funny that way, "Hanni, come! Come, hurry!"

 

He knows how to say his real name now, but it's been so long since Marco's seen him, he can't help feeling like he's three, four, five again.

 

"Hiya, kid!" Uncle Hanni ruffles his hair. He's making him wet, too, "Sorry 'bout the present. It still works, though, don't worry. I should know, I built it myself!"

 

Mm, there's that voice. Marco always loves hearing his voice. It's not deep like a mans, but it isn't high like a woman's either. He likes the in-betweens of everything this funny man is made out of. So funny, funny, funny. He almost wishes they were still making forts in the living room with couch cushions.

 

But he's with Dad now, and he wouldn't trade that for a thing.

 

~.~

 

The small offices along Maria Drive all look the same. They've got Marigolds, Moon Daisies and Roses tucked into one of those impressive flowerbeds separating the three, long buildings. But with the bright red brick walls and soft brown roof, there's nothing impressive about it. It just looks like a giant hot dog.

 

After the bus had dropped me off at my stop, I didn't go home. I went straight back out onto the street and started walking since there was no one in the house to give me a ride. No one's ever there at this time.

 

After two hours of walking, I'm so close to building 104 that I can practically feel the ventilated air hitting my face. The sign up sheet is just two steps away, just one step away. If I open this door I can finally start relaxing.

 

_Ka-ching!_

 

Well, that is, if the officer behind the desk is nice. But since I want this so bad, of course the strictest man alive had to be there today. Maybe if I'd ran and made it in one hour someone better would've been glaring at me.

 

"Can I help you, son?" He says, not really in a friendly tone, more like with annoyance.

 

Not many of us like him, and I'm being nice here and not saying _nobody_ likes him. I'm sure someone out there thinks he's an alright human being. But I'm still not so sure of that myself.

 

"Yessir, I came to sign up for the Soap Box Derby Race."

 

He sticks a pinky in his ear and shakes it, "Did I hear right? You look like you're fourteen, boy, you ain't old enough to join."

 

"I'm not fourteen," I don't tell him my real age, "I've got the money to join. Where can I sign up?"

 

"Wow, look at you, you've got money. But guess what? That don't mean nothing. How old are ya?"

 

" … Seventeen. Almost eighteen."

 

"Almost, huh?" There's nothing on his finger but he flicks at it like there was, "Too bad. Next year ya can join. All these old folks ain't gonna like seeing someone so young and baby lookin' participate."

 

"But aren't eighteen year old's participatin'?"

 

His eyes goes small and he points at me, "Now don't go getting cheeky with me, kid! Go on and get outta here before I arrest you for bein' a smart mouth."

 

Mr. Nile Dok. His name and scruffy face are popular among the kids around town. Not because he's handsome, but because of the expressions he makes when he's fuming. His body and jaw are long like Willow branches, and when he sneers at us they like to pretend they've summoned him from some cesspool, " _A Duck on the Nile with a wicked ugly smile. Mix Dok and Nile and you get something vile!_ "

 

It's not very clever.

 

He may be a stick in the mud, but I'm actually kinda lucky it was him I ran into because he's got a horribly strange weakness. And that weakness is the love he has for the town and how clean and perfect it's all got to be for when the thick-wallet tourists start coming.

 

I dig into my front pocket and pull out crumbled two fifty dollar bills. I wish it looked better so I wouldn't feel so childish, but it's still a lot of money. I came prepared in case of rejection since there isn't going to be anything or anyone to stop me from joining.

 

"What's this?" Mr. Nile asks, "Ten dollars?"

 

"A hundred." I say, straightening them out so he can see better.

 

It kind of hurts to give it away, it'd taken me five months of digging into people's trash to earn that.

 

"Are you tryna _bribe_ me?"

 

"When I win the Derby Race, I'll donate the prize, too. I know the town needs it, please let me sign up I'll be eighteen next month."

 

"When you—how do you know you're gonna win?"

 

I hide, "I come from a family of engineers and carpenters. And my Uncle is a wood shop teacher. I've got more experience buildin' things than anyone else racing."

 

This seems to impress him more than the money. He studies my face, trying to figure out who's kid I am, but I'm just like my dad. I'm quiet when no one speaks to me and I never make a scene. The only time I catch peoples attention is when me and my friends are running from trouble, but even then, I'm too fast for them to stick a picture on my face.

 

No one remembers us and I'm grateful for that.

 

"So you're willing to donate five-hundred dollars? You? A seventeen-almost-eighteen year old baby?"

 

"Yessir. That and ninety-five more dollars than the original sign up fee."

 

He rubs his chin and pretends to think about it, loyalty to a location wins, "Alright, fine. _If_ you win, you gotta announce you're donatin' it. I don't want ta look like I'm stealin' your money when you're crazy enough to hand it over yourself."

 

The corners of my mouth twitch when he hands me a clipboard and chewed up pen, "Thank you so much, sir. I'll announce it, don't worry."

 

"I ain't worried,” He huffs as I finish, “Now get out before I change my mind."

 

I almost wonder why he loves this place so much.

 

~~

 

"Hey Rei, can you pass me my eraser? It's by your wrench.”

 

Tom Waits is in the background singing and asking me if I want company. I keep listening, even though I'm waiting for Reiner to respond, because his voice is like deep thunder without the uncalled for anxiety I always get with storms.

 

I like being here in Reiner's house. 

 

I like the way the window shutters are different shades of blue. I like the way the ax permanently sliced into the stump in front of his door has grown rusty and green. I like how his left fence is made out of wire but how the right is wooden and how there's no gate to keep thieves out of there. But it's alright because there's an ax on their lawn.

 

His house isn't the only thing I like. The people who live in there are cool, too. He's got an uncle from Germany who's muscles look like clouds because he's a bodybuilder. His English isn't where he wants it to be, but he's nice and never tells me I need to gain weight or exercise and in return I'm not rude and ask if he wants English lessons.

 

Reiner's twenty-four year old brother lives in the basement. He's a truck driver with a nine month pregnant belly and a face that kills. Except the only killing he does is with kindness. He's a huge teddy bear that likes watching cooking shows because when he's on the road he can only eat fast food. He calls me Marcaroon.

 

The oldest brother, who'll turn thirty in December, still lives with them, too. He's a construction worker that has splotches of thick, white paint on different parts of his body every time I see him. He's made out of both muscle and fat, wisdom, immaturity, movie lines and perverted jokes that his current girlfriend doesn't seem to mind one bit. I think this one's the one for sure this time.

 

And last but not least is his seven foot father. The man is a walking hair ball that you'll never catch frowning or yelling at his family – unless he's been drinking and wants to tell you how much he loves you. He's not made out of much words when he's sober, but it's alright because he's told me he likes hearing me talk about nothing with his son. He says I talk like a girl and I've accepted it even though I don't know what that means.

 

"This lump is asleep," I say to myself, watching Reiner's chest rise and fall. He doesn't look comfortable being slumped the way he was, but I don't move him because he'll get mad if I wake him up when he wasn't ready yet.

 

It's only been two days since school ended, but I'm already drawing ideas for my car. Reiner – the future mechanic of the family – has agreed to help me so he can brag about my winning. I told him these things don't actually have an engine but he still wants to help.

 

Feeling bad about getting free services, I offered to work with him on the junk car his dad said he can have if he fixes it. But it's only when I feel I've completed what I needed to for the day when I agreed to get down and greasy with him. And greasy I am today.

 

We're sitting in his two door garage, it's half closed because the sun sets in that direction and makes us sweatier than we normally are. But it's well past nine now so I fold up my drawing and just let what little breeze comes though cool me down as try to follow my friend's crooked figure.

 

But then I can't. A roaring motor outside startles me enough to straighten my bad posture.

 

"Reiner! Did you hear that?"

 

He's doesn't stir.

 

I'm not curious by nature, but when I know everyone who lives around my friends house and what time they all give up on going out due to how old they are, my nose starts sniffing for answers.

 

"Hey, I'll be right back," I say even though he's in some other dimension, “Don't go anywhere.”

 

He snores and drool starts oozing out of his bottom lip.

 

In my dirty coveralls, I get up and duck under the garage to stroll down the empty driveway. The men are still out at work and won't be home until eleven. Sometimes I stay here passed that time because there's something comforting and safe feeling about the way a man smells after he's physically worked himself to the bone. No offense to office workers.

 

There's only three lamp posts around, so when I see the moving truck a few houses down from Reiner's, I squint my eyes extra good just in case I'm making things up. I start walking forward and realize it isn't my imagination.

 

Behind the truck is a man, trying his damn hardest to open up the back but even from here I can tell he looks too scared to chip a nail. His bleach blonde hair bounces every time he jumps to pull the mini garage up and I almost snort.

 

"Come on, I know you can do it! We can't sleep without bed-sheets, think about that! It'll be cold!"

 

Beside him, a cheerleader has balled up hands and is hopping whenever the more muscular of the two hops. His voice is high and thin like the legs attached to his torso. I notice he's not as thin as me but I'm not surprised.

 

"Just a little more, I can see it shaking! Look, look! Can you see it shaking?"

 

I scare myself when I see a third person off to the side. He's hiding in blackness created by trees that were blocking the lamp light. He hadn't been noticeable, but now he's sending goosebumps up my arms with the shadowy glare on his face. It's so cold and miserable, I have no doubt it could probably freeze summer over if he really wanted to – it sure as hell freezes me in my spot.

 

I think stopping my curious stroll was a mistake. The man snaps his head in my direction and says something to the other two but I'm still too far to hear it.

 

"Friendly neighbor!" Cheerleader says, he motions for me to come, "I'm sorry, are we too loud? Do you think you could help us? Do you know how to open these things?"

 

I hesitate. I think, _why not?_

 

"Sure, I can help!" I say it just as cheerily as him, it's how I was raised to respond.

 

When I'm near their bubble I notice why they look so weird. These guys are rich. _Rich_ rich. So rich their expensive colognes start burning my poor nostrils. And definitely way too rich to be in this kind of neighborhood – sorry Rei, but it's the truth.

 

And how do I know this? Easy. Their clothes. We don't even have whatever materials their fancy collard shirts are made out within a twenty mile radius, and just looking at it makes me feel like I should get on my knees and beg for the hundred I lost a couple days ago. I've also seen their sandals on TV before.

 

They cost a hundred dollars. _A hundred_! Maybe I'm exaggerating, it could be fifty, but that's still a lot of money for flip-flops. I don't care if it has a cute rainbow on it, I still wouldn't buy them.

 

"We're saved!"

 

Bleach Blonde wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, he looks ashamed and I feel like I'm hurting his manhood, "I'm sorry, we're a useless bunch. We'll be out of your hair in no time, I promise. Go on three?"

 

"Sure," I nod and position my hands flat against the door while he grasps the handle.

 

"One, two, _three_!"

 

Nothing. It doesn't even budge. I look down at the blonde and he's gasping for air like if we just ran a mile. His hands are on his knees, head bowed and revealing a sun tattoo on his neck, then lightly resting them on the bumper to show how defeated he felt. That's when I notice what could be the reason as to why they're struggling so much.

 

"Have you guys unlocked it?"

 

"Unlocked what?" Cheerleader asks.

 

"There's a keyhole below the handle, right there," I say, pointing with a nimble finger.

 

The two men glance at one another, sharing a smile so heartfelt and happy I had to look away. But I don't turn back to make friendly conversation with the other guy as a distraction, I can feel just how much he doesn't want to get to know this dirty stranger.

 

I think these two know he's in some type of mood, too, because they never asked him to help before I decided to come sticking my beeswax in their honeycomb.

 

"Alright, let's see if that does it!" The blonde chuckles, taking a silver key out from his short pocket. They probably cost more than my life.

 

_Whoosh!_

 

The metal goes flying up without him having to put any unnecessary force behind it and Cheerleader shrieks. It's open and I feel useless rather than helpful because of how easy that was, "Are you guys new in town or are y'all just here vacationin'?"

 

I can't help but ask. It isn't abnormal for rich folks to do that, since they think it's cute seeing how small towns hustle. I don't mind it either, but I'm worried about these guys if they're here permanently because they don't know how to open doors. Where are their servants or housekeepers? That's what rich people have, right?

 

"We're—"

 

"—new in town!" Cheerleader cheers, "I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing you all talk. It's the sweetest thing ever. Do you think we'll get an accent of our own, Simon? Oh shit! We're so rude, we haven't introduced ourselves!"

 

He steps towards me and I see something sparkling on his eyes. It's eyeshadow. Baby blue eyeshadow.

 

"My name is Robert Kirstein – web designer and twenty-seven years old," Robert shakes my hand softly as the other wipes the sweat off his palm before walking closer to us.

 

"I'm Simon Gordon, same age as this one, but better at dealing with house sales than he can code whatever, whatever on computers."

 

Robert playfully smacks him and I wait until it's a good time to talk, "My name's Marco Bodt. I don't actually live around here, but if y'all ever need help again my friend lives down that way," I say, pointing at the different shades of blue house and possibly saving their lives.

 

Robert gasps, "I can't believe I almost—Jean, get over here!"

 

I'm surprised when I hear twigs snapping behind me, the grump doesn't look like the type to obey orders from people like Robert but he's for sure walking towards us. My body goes stiff when I see the party pooper – not because I'm scared or anything. But because now that he's closer to the light spilling on the street, I can tell that he's around my age.

 

"This is Jean Kirstein," Robert announces, hands on Jean's shoulders, "He's my baby cousin, an Aries and vegetarian like the rest of us. But he's not here for vacation. He was misbehaving back home and was sent with us for the summer. Right, Jean?"

 

I ignore how he implied that my town is being used as punishment for this kid. Instead I extend my hand out for the third time and try not to feel ugly in my coveralls, "Nice to meet you, Jean."

 

When he finally looks at me, he's just as surprised as I felt when I saw him. His dark eyes go big and his eyebrows shoot up, but his face is still scary with all the shadows around him so I freeze again. A different look takes over his initial shock, and although he's shorter than my five feet-eight inches, man does he start looking way down on me.

 

He doesn't shake my hand.

 

I see a silver ring on his middle finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Leaving Safe Places](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WzBrV-2ZxDM)


	3. Toys and Introductions

~Imagine a cashier working at a convenience store. She's in her mid-thirties with long dark hair that she keeps in a low ponytail. Her skin is a warm shade of brown, it's beautiful and aged. She's been working there for only four months, but she likes it and decides it's her favorite job out of the other two.

 

She prefers this one because of the man that never fails to come early on Saturday's just after opening.

 

"Mornin'." He greeted. He's wearing pajama pants and no winter coat despite the snow outside.

 

"Morning." She said back.

 

He gives her a toothy smile, waves his callous hand and shares a secret dimple along his laugh lines before turning away. Whenever he's pretending to search for something behind the aisles, she can see the mess of curly hair sitting on the top of his head. It's cute, the way he seems like a lost child in the store.

 

She knows what he's going to get, though. It's always the same thing. Four Honey Buns, two chocolate Nestles and a single scratchcard that he never wins at. Well, at least that's what she guesses. He doesn't stick around to play it like some people do. She wishes he would.

 

"Is this all for you today?" She asked. It's a rule she has to follow, but she doesn't mind the useless talk with him.

 

The man nods while his dimple says hi to her, "Yes. Thank you very much."

 

"You know, I don't see many adults eating these types of things," She said, putting the items in a paper bag.

 

"Awe, well, my son likes them. I like 'em too, but I can pretend they're all for him if anyone else asks," He laughed, earthy and deep and she laughed with him, wondering if there's a mother in the picture allowing this kind of breakfast. Wondering if there's a mother in general.

 

Her fingers let the scratchcard fall along with the pastries and milk, "You win any money with the tickets yet? You never come back to collect your winnings."

 

"Oh, those aren't for me."

 

She raises a brow, "Your son?"

 

His smile widens. He even looks a little shy as his eyes fly miles and miles away from where they're standing, transporting into the soul of someone who's already taken half of his. The cashier knows. She knows before he opens his mouth.

 

"No, not my son,” He blinks, “They're for my wife."

 

~Imagine a ten year old boy waking up to an empty house at eight in the morning. Last night he had marathoned through a stack of Disney movies, pulling out a sleeping bag and lantern from the garage and pretending he was camping in the woods since it was too cold to actually do it outside.

 

He's still in his ketchup-smeared jeans and Power Rangers shirt and his long hair is severely knotted from behind his neck. Hair combs are foreign in the house of wavy texture.

 

The house is empty, but he isn't scared. He knows exactly where his Dad is.

 

The boy stays snuggled in his sleeping bag, he doesn't like the way his head itches or how his breath smells, but he's still going to wait for his Dad to tell him to shower to do anything about his discomfort.

 

Like many other lonely hours of the day, Marco begins to think about what it'd be like if he had a Mom. Would she snap at him for not eating his vegetables instead of saying, "It's alright, I don't like 'em, either"? Would she tuck him in at night instead of staying past four in the morning in another room? Would she remember the clothes in the washer before two days passed and they smelled like wet dog? Would she cut is hair off or comb it?

 

Dad already explained to him how she's in a better place, somewhere safe where nothing but good thoughts and love can reach her.

 

Marco doesn't remember a thing about the three years and eight months he spent with her. But in the two same pictures his Dad shows him every year on his birthday, he knows deep in his heart that that really is his Mom.

 

And not just because they look alike – because they really do – but because when he sees her, his gut aches and tickles like if she's poking his belly and softly saying, "Smile my baby, I'm here. I'm yours and you're mine. I'm here."

 

He doesn't cry. He thinks he shouldn't. Not when he's still so lucky to have one parent when some kids have none.

 

"Hey, I'm back!"

 

Like a child afraid of getting lost in this crowded world, Marco flies to his feet and welcomes his father home with a desperate embrace.

 

~.~

 

Have you ever wanted something so bad, so hard, and so painful that you'd do anything to get it? That you can't think of anything else but that specific thing? If the answer is no then you just might be one of the lucky ones. Obsessions aren't fun unless you're able to grasp the thin strings of satisfaction it rarely brings.

 

I thought I clutched onto a couple of those slippery threads when I was walking from the bus station that drops me off twenty minutes away from Reiner's house. The days I don't have a ride there, I'm allowed to travel alone with five single dollars in my pocket for bus fair.

 

When I'd entered the first ten minutes of my walk, I saw a lonesome Sina 6-16 steering wheel sitting on top of a heap of trash, in front of someone's house, and not kicked off to the side for the garbage men like nice people do.

 

But before I'd even tried reaching for it, I swear the house glared at me with its tinted windows, as if reading my immoral intentions. I bravely whimpered backwards just in case it ate me like in that one movie.

 

 _Maybe I shouldn't do this_ , I'd thought. How could I when a building was winning a stare-down against me?

 

It's one of those houses that aren't really part of a neighborhood, the ones that have to deal with hearing racing cars pass their front yard at all hours of the day. The ones that are on display for everyone to look at and say to themselves, “That's not safe for the children living there!” So it wasn't just the house watching me rethink my actions.

 

But I don't know why they left their trash out so shamelessly, so me – being a good guy – I decided to take it despite the feeling of terror and shame the house was giving me. This way their pile of junk would be one item less of a pile of junk.

 

Only it hadn't been a pile of junk. And I noticed too late.

 

I'm clutching onto the steering wheel with my arms outstretched and vrooming noises coming out of my mouth when I hear a voice behind me. I don't pay it any mind though, because my conscious is telling me I didn't really need the wheel when an old gaming controller could do the job just as good. Connie's got about four that he has stashed inside his closet, I'm betting he'd be happy to get ride of any of those.

 

But this one's pretty and I want pretty if I can have it. Especially if it's for free.

 

"Hey! Hey, I'm talkin' to you!"

 

The voice is close when I finally snap out of my internal conflict. When I turn around there's a man down the sidewalk pointing a finger at me. What is it with grown-ups and finger pointing? Weren't they the ones that taught us not to do that? It kind of annoys me when they do it, it's like a big slap to the face, telling me what I learned growing up won't matter when I'm grown up.

 

"That's _my_ wheel you've got there! Whatter you doin' with that?"

 

I look down at the shiny blackness and then up at him, realizing that the trash on his yard might've not been trash at all. It might've been parts for his derby car and for the race we're both entered in. Oops. There was more rust than metal in that bin anyways so I don't feel so bad when I bolt like a chicken from a coyote.

 

Now, just like with being nosy, it's not in my nature to steal, not even when me and Hanji are starving after spending the last of his teacher's salary on bills. It's just that the battle between my head and heart fell victim to another player – my selfishness.

 

I tell myself this is important as my legs pound against pavement, I make the man look like a villain and think this race is probably only for the fun of it for him. Something just to bond with with his old buddies as their wives yell on the sidelines for them. In the next week they won't even remember losing, whereas for me, it'll be etched into my life until the day they bury me in dirt.

 

"You skinny sonova bitch, get back here! That ain't no toy!"

 

It doesn't matter how fast I'm running, the old man is still hot on my tail but we're both suffering in this heat. I can hear my pulse ramming against my temples and it feels like my heart's going to explode, but I don't stop. I can't when I'm already this deep into the situation. I can't just turn around and say, “Oh sorry sir, here ya go. I'll be on my way now. Have a good day.” He'll have me arrested once he gets his hands on me.

 

But if I keep going for another seven, long agonizing minutes, I'll reach Reiner's neighborhood and ... and ... 

 

Wait.

 

Shit.

 

I'm leading him straight to his damn house! What do I do? What do I do? Where can I—!

 

Without slowing my steps for even a split second, I scram to the house right next to us. My foot kicks a giant pink ball standing in my way and I almost twist it when it lands on a toy boat. Tiny bushes cut at my legs as I jump over their fence and into their backyard.

 

The steering wheel goes flying along with my body and we land in a painful thud.

 

"Fuck! Get back here you low life!" The man curses behind the fence.

 

I stare in horror when I hear him banging against the wood, taking me a while to realize he's not trying to break it. He's trying to jump _over_ like some cops do but he's too big and only his fingers come to my side.

 

Not wanting to give him all the time in the world to catch me, I stick the wheel in my mouth and get up. Now that I know what I'm about to do in order to escape, I prepare my ankles and balance for the next clumsy hop.

 

The backyard behind this backyard isn't empty. An angry Chihuahua decides I'm his enemy and nips at my shin, I love dogs so I don't kick it over to the cursing man like I wanted to. Instead I dash across the yard until I'm safely over the next house.

 

This one isn't any better. My feet land directly in a dirty kiddie pool, it's green and full of dead flies and bees, but hey, no one's chasing me anymore – human or otherwise.

 

Like a fine little frog I leap and hop and jump from one house to the next. Here's a glass table with an umbrella and only three chairs to go around, here's a garden with dead vegetables and spider webs on their strawberries, here's a barrel filled with tree branches and raked leaves, here's a dog house without the dog and an opened back door.

 

My body decides when it's time to stop without us consulting it first, landing me straight on my behind with pain that shoots up my spine, "Ouch!"

 

The wheel pops out of my mouth when I squeeze my eyes shut, like if it's some weird button that dispenses objects. But I don't even care where the cursed item lands, I'm seething in pain and rubbing my back with the quickest headache drumming against my eye sockets.

 

"What the fuck are you doing?"

 

My vision goes from darkness to bright real quick when I look around for the voice. It isn't the old man's – not that it could be – but it isn't familiar so it startles me. Startled is an understatement when I see where I've landed. Coincidences are funny, sometimes I like them so I don't think of a bigger meaning behind the one I've barged into.

 

"Hello there, Jean." I cheerily say, pretending everything is absolutely right with the world and not hurting.

 

I haven't seen this ball of sunshine since last week. A full week has passed and all I've got to show for my derby car is a blueprint and stolen steering wheel. It's no wonder I'd completely forgotten about the new people in town but I don't mind seeing him now.

 

"How have you all been?" I ask, trying to defuse my accent in an attempt to make him feel like we're not so different.

 

Jean's eyes stare at me hard before he unfolds the sunglasses tucked on the collar of his million dollar shirt. He's wearing a wide, straw hat that shades his face with only a few small pockets of sunshine streaming through, and there's a yellow drink fancily being held by his silver decorated hand as he rests on a beach chair. And like last time, he's ignoring me again.

 

I'm still rubbing my back side and buying time to heal when I remember the other two, "Where're your cousins? Simon and Robert, was it? They were really friendly, I hope we have welcomed you all nice enough."

 

Jean slowly takes a sip of his drink before snapping at me. Man this boy is something else, "Only _one_ of them is my cousin, got it, Mario? Tweedledee and Tweedledum forgot to bring fucking food and are out at the supermarket fucking around at the moment, so how about you come by later when I don't have to deal with you?"

 

That's a good suggestion, but my ass hurts and I still can't move. It feels like my tail bone's been shoved up my throat.

 

“They're nice.”

 

“Go away.”

 

"Are they gay?"

 

“Wha—What?”

 

“Uhhh … ” I pretend to forget.

 

But Jean's brain registers it and his eyebrows shoot up past the rims of his glasses. His mouth gapes and cheeks burn as he sits forward to glare at me, "Watch your mouth if you're going to go accusing people without having any proof."

 

"He was wearin' make-up," I don't know what I'm doing, "And bought a house with another guy. I wasn't tryna be mean, there's lots of gays in small towns, too, we just don't get willingly open ones."

 

I can't really see his eyes behind the lens, but I know he's judging me, trying to figure me out, "You a fag?" He asks.

 

"No," I'm obscured, "Are you?"

 

"Fuck off already."

 

He says it angrily, but behind the darkness of his eyes I feel him watching my face. He looks offended.

 

I can't do much else but laugh. I'd think about saying the same thing too if some stranger who just fell into my backyard like a sack of potatoes started asking all those private questions. Maybe this wheel really is bad luck.

 

I groan like an old man as I wobble to my feet. The grass had been burning my legs and I think about how shorts and summer might not be a great combo for me. Especially when people can see how white my legs look.

 

"It was nice meetin' you. If we see each other again, just call me Marco... Or Mario if it's easier for you to say."

 

He looks like he wants to shoot me an insult, but instead goes back to resting without paying me any mind. Sweat trickles down his face and he slaps it away.

 

I leave.

 

I throw away the steering wheel in the next house over, losing all motivation I had for having something pretty for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Too Much Still](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WsNkBLsBNds)


	4. Coffee For One and Thirst

One of the many people that like to take care of me when I'm struggling is Miss Petra Ral. She's somewhere in her twenties but she already owns her own successful eating joint, which never seems to get lonely – not even before dawn when the world is still sleeping and the ghosts are still visiting.

 

Her little place is popular among the tourists and of course us locals as well. But they like it because of the pictures they can take with the human-size, yellow mouse out in the front, the retro-theme oozing from within that everyone must think small towns are filled with, and because they can watch the water from the water fountain park a few ways ahead shoot up into the sky and then land with a painful smack.

 

Those of us who live here come because we like _her_. And her food. The stereotypical red and chrome restaurant hadn't impressed us for very long, but I hear it's fun when you're here on a date... Anyways, we sound biased, but it's true either way. This place is the best for the simplest of reasons.

 

And that's where I'm finding myself right now. After finally putting the skeleton of my car together – with the help of no one since Connie came over and he and Reiner started working on their own derby car just for the fun of it – I decided to reward myself with the hopes of getting a free milkshake from Miss Petra if she was in.

 

"Hello," I greet the woman I almost run into when I enter.

 

"Oh! Hello," She sings as she leaves.

 

People are nice.

 

People are _everywhere_.

 

I attract the attention of the customer paying for his finished meal. He works at the salon a few shops over even though the only hair on his body is his massive mustache. Whenever I find myself walking passed his store, if he's not busy he comes out and asks if I'm ready for that haircut yet, snipping his scissors and smiling like if we'd scheduled it or something.

 

He can put a picture and name to my face, but Mr. Pixis is a different kind of man. Like Miss Petra, he takes care of me when we cross each others path, offering me an apple from his lunch that he didn't finish or sometimes even giving me his whole meal if someone treated him to food already.

 

Looking like I'm dying might not be so bad after all.

 

"Good afternoon, Marco." His voice is croaky from all the drinking he's done in life.

 

"Good afternoon, sir."

 

"How've ya been?"

 

"Good," I go to him so no one almost runs into me, "And you?"

 

I don't think he hears me because he ignores my question, "How are you and your uncle doing? I haven't seen 'em come in for a cut in about four months." 

 

"He's letting his hair grow out like mine," My mind's a cloud, I give him a smile, "And I've lost about five pounds just last night after watching cooking shows with Bamey."

 

"Oh that's not good at all, look at ya, you're barely able to hold yourself up. Here, lemme get you two a little something," He turns to the cashier that'd been patiently waiting to give him his change. You're not supposed to order from there since it's a restaurant, but old people are allowed to do whatever they want it seems, "Can I get two orders of a Three Cheese Wall Burger? I want the whole meal, with the seasoned fries and large Coke and all that."

 

"Awe, no, you don't--"

 

He shuts me up with a hand, "I'll see you when you come in for a trim."

 

I'm not cutting my hair, but I smile again and thank him as he pays and leaves. Now that I've received free food, I _have_ to pay for my milkshake. But I'm also paying for the atmosphere, so it's not that big a deal when Miss Petra's restaurant makes me feel like I'm not lost in a corn maze.

 

"Could you put it in a to-go box and hold it for me please?" I ask, really shamelessly giving this poor cashier extra work, "It's just, I'm not all that hungry for a burger right now. I'll come back for it, I promise."

 

The girl behind the register doesn't say anything, she just grins and nods and looks up at me with fluttering, big ol' eyes. Kind of reminds me of a puppy.

 

"Uh. Ok. Thank you."

 

I turn away to look for an empty table or booth, but of course there isn't one. It seems like everyday we get more and more vacationers who're bored looking at the walls of their house and feel the desire to visit _this_ place. This town where there's literally nothing going on.

 

But to each their own, I guess, I'm not judging. I'd go visit their neighborhoods and houses if given the chance if I'm being honest here. But I'd probably be scared. Sometimes when you've lived in a box your whole life, anything other than that familiar confinement can feel unpleasantly vast and overwhelming.

 

I start thinking that maybe I should take my shake to go when I see no open spaces for me, but then suddenly something catches my eye. It's a sore red thumb, way in the back of the restaurant near the trash bins with its back facing the crowd. An antisocial thumb.

 

Although I know I shouldn't mess with Jean anymore than I already have, especially with how our last meeting ended, my feet saunter their way over to him anyhow. I know it's him because of the style of his clothes, the way he carries his posture and the dye on his hair. Or at least I think it's dye, some rich people are just born lucky enough to have unnaturally gorgeous hair so I don't know.

 

When I get to him though, I have to do a double take and make sure this isn't some other mean looking Jean.

 

The boy looks up at me with a hot dog mid way in his mouth. His plate is carrying two more and they're all smothered with cheese and bacon bits and beans. There's a nasty mug of black coffee next to his plate that I'd mistake for maybe his cousin's, but the mustard stain on it that match the ones on his dirty lip says otherwise.

 

I don't laugh, "Is this seat free, sir? Everythin' else is taken."

 

With wide, accusatory eyes, Jean rigidly shakes his head, cheeks heated and puffed out. I know he's only being nice because I caught him eating meat, but it makes me happy that he's not telling me to scram. That doesn't mean he put away his glare though, he's got that look on a leash like a dog, saying "sic 'em boy!" whenever unfavorable people are around. Whenever the whole world is around.

 

"Taste good?" I ask, sitting as I raise my hand to get the attention of a waitress across the room. His gaze makes the cloud in my head grow and I watch the girl instead.

 

She's rolling her way over, fake curls bouncing with her steps. She's got one of those smiles that says she really likes her job despite having every reason to hate it. It's either that or she's practicing facial expressions because she wants to be an actress like the rest of the girls in school. I hope they all make it together.

 

"What can I getchu?" She asks when she gets here, tired and dewy in the face.

 

"Just a Triple Choco Titan, please."

 

"Yum, great choice. That's actually my favorite, I might have one myself during my break time,” She titters as she writes down my order and I join to be polite, “Ok, I'll be right back with your milkshake, just hold on tight!"

 

She leaves. I look at Jean and he's already looking back.

 

"How much?"

 

I raise a brow, "How much what? … You want a milkshake? I don't have enough money but I guess we can share."

 

He rolls his eyes, "How much money do you want to keep quiet about the hot dogs?"

 

"I don't want anything," I'm almost offended, but a bad part of me really does want the money, so I don't get mad, "What you do is none of my business, I just really needed a place to sit."

 

Jean squints, still weary but says no more. I don't know what kind of people he's dealt with, but the boy has some serious trust issues. And he's not so honest either, eating hot dogs like he was right now. It must be true about what they say – when you don't trust yourself, you don't trust _anybody_.

 

I fold my hands together on the table, inspecting Jean real good since this was the first time we were in good lighting and so near. He hasn't picked up his food and is studying me equally hard. Or he's spacing out, I can't tell.

 

Jean has both ears pierced – I'm surprised because he looks the type to make fun of boys who do that – decorated with two small diamonds that could probably pay for our groceries for a month. His hair is shaved from a little over half his head while the top is neatly combed and parted to the side. The bottom is the color of coffee while the top softer like cinnamon powdered donuts.

 

I love cinnamon powdered donuts.

 

I notice his skin is slightly tan and blemish free. Blemish free! Who gave this guy his luck? I move down to look at his neck, it's got four small moles making a home for themselves there and it doesn't make me feel self-conscious about my army of freckles.

 

My eyes travel to the rest of him and I notice that he's actually quite muscular. His shoulders are broad and arms so snug against his dress shirt they might've been long lost lovers finally meeting through coincidence as skin and cloth – I can see the carvings of his biceps and triceps and I try not to get jealous.

 

The only thing that's not so great about him are those judgmental eyes, they're the smoldering shade of brown that's been poured from that black coffee of his and into his iris's. If I look harder, though, I can see that they're not as harsh as his personality says they should be and it confuses me.

 

I decide Jean is handsome.

 

Meanwhile I'm over here looking like showers haven't existed in this century yet. I'm in my dirty coveralls – which aren't as stained as the first time we'd met, give me some credit here – but next to _his_ clean cut clothes and dignified aura, I might as well have been dowsed in a heap of horse poop.

 

It doesn't help that my hair isn't in its usual bun today. I've let it loose to take in some of that summer air, having it tied all the time isn't healthy and it makes it break easily. It isn't combed either, but wavy hair doesn't have to be, it's just resting down behind my back and almost to my waist like a curtain around one shoulder.

 

I don't think too heavily about my own body. If I do I'll roll into one of those bad days where all I feel is sick and gross.

 

"Quit l-looking so much, will you?"

 

I forgot about him.

 

"Sorry," A smile grows on my face, "Where's your one cousin and male friend? I only seem to be spotting you around."

 

"I don't know. I don't care."

 

The master of words, I see. It's alright, though, because I'm good at making conversation with anyone I need to.

 

"Have you heard of what we're doin' here for the fourth of July? We throw a big festival in City Hall … bet there'll be all sorts of meat for you. Last year they had armadillo and duck. You ever try those before?"

 

No answer.

 

"I guess you don't have to try 'em. There'll be normal hot dogs there, too. And barbecue, and smoked steak, and turkey legs – man those are huge, you'll like that. How long you been having an affair with meat?"

 

No answer. I'll admit that wasn't very funny.

 

"Well, it doesn't matter. There's more than meat there. You like playin' sports? You look like you do, otherwise you wouldn't be so fit. What about singing? I like singin', just not in front of people like they'll do at the festival. I'm more of a watcher unless someone forces me. You like Ferris wheel rides?"

 

I don't say anything about the derby race. He doesn't say anything about anything.

 

"Don't worry, I'm not goin' to tell on you."

 

I don't notice the waitress until she's placing the milkshake right in front of my excited face. I thank her and stop talking because this is better than having a conversation with a wall. But I'm not complaining, because even if walls don't talk back, they always listen.

 

My milkshake is Miss Petra's most popular item. It's called the Triple Choco Titan because it's made up of three types of chocolate. First is the normal chocolate milkshake – but normal is fine, we all start with a foundation. Second are the three, thick and long pretzel sticks that are dipped in white chocolate and shoved inside the dessert. And last is the crushed remains of Turtles candy sprinkled and mixed on top of a mountain of whipped cream.

 

The tables are already equipped with chocolate syrup, so I grab it and add even more sweetness to my sugar.

 

"You're really weird," Jean decides to stop being a wall, "People from where I live get beat up everyday for speaking the way you do."

 

I lick syrup off my thumb when I'm done, I think it was mixed with metal sweat, "How do I speak?"

 

He doesn't say anything for a while, so I start crunching on pretzels. After a minute he says, "Just don't make assumptions about people and we won't have any problems."

 

"Oh is this about your cousin? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about that either. I've got queer friends at every corner of the world."

 

I've never stepped foot outside my box.

 

Jean doesn't deny his temporary guardian isn't gay this time. He huffs air out of his nostrils and actually cracks a smile. I think it's real, it looks pretty real, "How does a total stranger see something parents take years to see? If that isn't the most fucking hilarious thing that I'd ever heard, then I don't know what is."

 

"Is he livin' here because they disowned him? I hear that happens all the time. Happens here, too."

 

"Yeah, they did, but it was a win, not a loss. Having to deal with that shit, it was for the best."

 

I swallow cold chocolate and stare at his moles, "Are _you_ gay?"

 

Jean leans back and laughs. Actually laughs. I hadn't expected that, "Again with that question? _I'm_ not the one that got kicked out of the family circle of hell. Aren't you paying any attention to what I'm saying, Mario...?... Luigi, Toby?"

 

"Toby?" I stop eating, "I hope you don't mean _Yoshi_."

 

He laughs again and it catches me in the shade. I laugh with him and it feels like we're friends, but I know almost next to nothing about this guy. Shoot, I know more about his queer cousin than him.

 

“Well, whatever. I didn't grow up playing video games, alright?”

 

He watches me slurp the mushy chocolate, “Alright, I get it. I've got a friend who does nothing but play, so if you're ever lookin' for something to do, just knock at the blue house I pointed at the first day we met.”

 

“We'll see.” He says, and I'm glad he doesn't promise.

 

I look around the table when my throat starts itching, I forgot to order water. Sweets always make me thirsty, especially when I eat milkshakes (you can't _drink_ the good ones). When I'm not done searching for what isn't there my eyes catch sight of the nasty drink Jean has.

 

"Why'd you order coffee during summer without any cream, sugar or ice?"

 

Jean props his elbows on the table and sighs, "It's to kill the smell and taste of meat in my mouth. There's nothing stronger than coffee breath."

 

"Hm. I think you're pretty weird, too. A good weird. Not the kind that'd get you beat up everyday."

 

“You're just saying that so I don't kick your ass.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” I smile, “But I really do think you're interestin'.”

 

He looks at me, _really_ looks at for once and not in the mean way, as if he's trying to find a sliver of teasing on my face or in my voice. But there isn't any because I'm a sincere kind of guy that says what I mean like a man on death row confessing all of his wrongdoings before going to the chair.

 

“I guess you're not so bad, either, _Marco_.”

 

When Jean's satisfied with however my face must look, he exhales, looks down at his plate and starts tearing apart the sorry hot dogs. I don't ask what the big deal with pretending he doesn't eat meat is. I'm enjoying the way fancy Jean looks with ketchup and chili smeared on the corners of his thin lips too much.

 

I feel as I flag down a waitress for a large cup of heavily needed ice water.

 

~.~

 

~Neighbors come in all shapes and sizes and personalities, but most fall under a category.

 

There are Phantoms – they rarely come out and don't wear shoes when they go get their mail (which happens to be the only time you'll ever see them), there are the Heads – whenever you're driving home or out, you see them at the windows checking up on what everyone else is doing. There are the opposites of Phantoms, the Campers – they never seem to be indoors (not even during winter) and they always have friends and family sitting with them outside, talking about the ways of the world and how much it's changed.

 

There are also the Children. These are just kids who's parents trust them enough to venture out on their own with Popsicle stains on their faces and shoes on the wrong feet. But the kids aren't crying or fighting with one another, so it doesn't matter if they look that way.

 

One day a Child is outside playing with her beloved bike's wheel when a sound catches her attention. She looks over at her brothers and sisters, they're too preoccupied with the stray cats on their yard to care for anything else.

 

She dusts her small hands against jeans and tiptoes to the backyard. Her neighbors were Phantoms, never stepping foot outside unless they had school or work. But there must be something special for them in the back since every year, around this time, they'd make lots of metal-scratching noises there.

 

Peeking through the fence separating their houses, she's only able to see their brown shirts and baggy pants huddled on the ground. They're talking – maybe even laughing – but she can't hear, they're only whispering.

 

She's heard her Parent's talking about the family next door, the ghosts who aren't very friendly or sociable or worth wasting their time getting to know. She thinks they're wrong. Many times before, the fourteen year old son has waved hi to her, he even gave her a band-aid when she fell off her tree last month! She doesn't remember where her Parents were at that time, but she remembers the boy because he was the one who heard her cries.

 

She likes her neighbors. She knows they do things for them. One time, when her Dad was going to work, he ran over her bike and broke the wheel and dented the pedals. Her mom had said there was nothing they could do to fix it, so they had to throw it out with the trash. But before the garbage men took it later that week, she noticed how her bike wasn't with the pile anymore.

 

Days later her bike popped up on their lawn – brand new and even better than before! Her parents hadn't noticed, or maybe they hadn't remembered what'd happened to it, but she didn't care. She had her bike back and she wanted to thank them.

 

But it was hard, because they rarely come out and they're _boys_. If there was a Mamma, that'd be a different story. She doesn't know what had really happened to her, but that never stopped Parents or their friends from guessing the rumors that'd started spreading when the Engine Man was popular:

 

"Oh, it's just awful. I heard the baby was a still-born and the mother got so depressed – you know how it goes – she couldn't take the sadness."

 

"No, no, you've got it all wrong. The mom took too many drugs before it was born and it died days later. She passed away from complications, right?"

 

"Who knows, all I know is there's a single, handsome man livin' next door. Ugh. But he has another child, doesn't he?"

 

"Child? The boy's a teenager! You don't suppose that's from another marriage? From what I heard, the mother was only in her early twenties when she passed."

 

"You're kidding! That's horrible, that's so sad! She was so young... I bet he forced her to have a baby, I bet the bastard cheated. Men are rude like that, he probably wasn't even with her in the delivery room!"

 

"You guys have it _all_ wrong. The woman didn't die of birth complications. It was a car accident weeks after delivery! He'd sent her out to get something for 'im and _wham_! The end."

 

The Child steps back from the fence. Her heart is heavy with an emotion she's too young to name and decides not to thank the strangers after all. She'd wanted to make them happy with a gift for _their_ gift, but remembering once again of what they'd lost … even if the stories weren't true, they still didn't have a Mamma or wife. She feels there's nothing left to make them happy anymore.

 

~Neighbors come in all shapes and sizes and personalities, but most fall under a category: Correct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Two Birds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBrTyyZK2hE)


	5. Body Positivity and Sass

After our unplanned dinner date, I started seeing a lot more of Jean around. And it wasn't in the normal sense, either. And what do I mean by that? Well, when it's a coincidence – the normal sense – when you see a familiar face at a grocery store and they're with their parents and you're with yours, you pretend you don't notice each other. Or the coincidence could be at a parking lot, you two make eye contact, you smile, you go on with your day. But Jean … like I've said before, he's something else.

 

One day after scavenging for parts for my car, I was walking home in my dirty coveralls – content and satisfied with my findings when all of a sudden he came strolling by my side. I looked around to see where he could've popped out from, but there were no cars around to indicate he'd been dropped off. When I looked down at him, his expression was one as if he'd been there throughout my whole one hour walk.

 

“Jean?” I'd asked him, confused and worried I might've been making him up. I make a lot of things up.

 

He had kept his eyes ahead, “Do you know where we are?”

 

“Uh,” I looked around, unsure, “Yeah, we're on Maria Street. You lost?”

 

“Do you know what's along Maria Street?”

 

“Sure, lots of stuff, but what're you gettin' at? And where'd you come from? I don't see your guardians anywhere.”

 

“I just came from a friend's house when I saw you,” He'd stopped walking and so had I, “I need you to buy something for me.”

 

“I have no money.”

 

“I'm _giving_ you the money, you dope. We're close, come on.”

 

That day I'd found out Jean is not who Jean really is or who he makes himself out to be. As neat as his hair is, as polished as his shoes are, as wrinkle-free as his clothes move … Jean has a secret person living inside of all that ironing and parting. Buying a morbid death metal album for him from Hannes was the first look I got into the real him.

 

The next day while I was at the Piggly Wiggly, I saw him out in the parking lot loitering. He hadn't even pretended to ignore me that time, he'd stuck his tongue out at me before chasing me down and asking if I could buy him a sub from the restaurant next door. When I'd asked why he couldn't do it himself – because I was curious to hear his answer, I wasn't mean – like the day he'd eaten the hot dogs, he said he'd almost gotten caught by someone his cousin had befriended already and didn't want to take any chances.

 

After the sandwich, there was black nail polish. After the nail polish, there were new earrings. After the earrings, there was a book. I think the book surprised me more than the fact that I'd been going along with it all. I didn't care that some days he needed me more than two hours to shop for multiple things, and I also didn't care that he was taking advantage of me and these Coincidences.

 

We'd been going like that for a little over a week now. I still don't know how he has managed to find me so easily, even if this _is_ a small town, I don't get how his face is one I see more than the old man I live with. And what sucks more than anything is that I'm always in my dirty coveralls, smelling like garbage, looking like garbage when he finds me.

 

It's been a couple days since I've seen him, though. I think it's good because my heart speeds up whenever he hands me wads of money to buy things I can only dream of having. Like those black boots we got at the mall on Thursday. They had silver spikes on them that didn't really hurt to the touch, but they could probably still do lots of damage from a single kick. It must be fun wearing something threatening like that.

 

I smile and feel wind on my warm face, “Yup, somethin' else, he is something else.”

 

After finishing my work at Reiner's for the night, I didn't feel like hanging around much and left. I thought it was weird – because I always stay passed midnight for the snacks and TV – until I see him. Funny how I feel like going home earlier on this particular day and at this particular time, and how I'm thinking of Jean on my walk out the neighborhood and he just so happens to be sitting on the rocking chair decorating their porch.

 

I know it's him even though the lights in his house are all off. I know it because I can see his face being illuminated by his phone. It's pouring onto his skin, saying he's mad again. Serendipity says I should still try and say hi.

 

“Shit! Fuck you, then.”

 

Or maybe not.

 

I look away from his general direction and keep on walking – just in case he spots me and decides to relieve his anger in punches. It seems he's never in the mood for a friendly hello, never in the mood to give anyone the time of day. But then my legs almost stop when I hear a sharp squeak from wood and footsteps coming down two steps with unnecessary speed.

 

I keep walking.

 

“Hey, it's rude not to greet your neighbors,” Jean says. He's walking to me and I have to turn around.

 

“What?”

 

“I said … I said don't be rude.”

 

My brain warns me not to name all the rude things he's done to me, “But I'm not really a neighbor since I don't live here.”

 

“I was just kidding.” He stops a few feet away.

 

I notice the empty driveway behind us and realize he's home alone. Every time I see him, he's always alone.

 

“Oh.”

 

Jean sticks his hands in his pockets. He's not wearing any of the clothes I've bought for his behalf, “What are you doing out so late anyways? And why are you always wearing that? If I ever saw you wearing normal clothes, I probably wouldn't recognize you.”

 

“Probably,” I agree and feel ugly again, but it's the kind where you're OK with it because it's the truth and the truth doesn't hurt anymore, “I just finished hangin' out with a friend, the one who lives a few houses down from you. Have y'all went to him for any help yet?”

 

Something's different about him, but I can't tell what.

 

“Oh yeah, we have. Do you, uh, live nearby or something? Is that why you're walking home?”

 

“No, I take the bus.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He nods and does a funny thing with his lip. It's been a while since I've had an awkward encounter like this, so I start looking around the scenery because staring at Jean is too hard. There are black trees soundless in the wind, three lamp poles with orange/yellow light, cars and shadows. There are cicadas crying, the birds are sleeping, crickets orchestrating. Jean coughing a fake cough.

 

“I should get goin',” I slowly start backing up and he looks surprised, “You know, just in case the bus comes early … Do you wanna walk with me to the stop? It's a little far, but … ”

 

I expect him to scoff or roll his eyes or say _”yeah right, you smell like shit man”_ to my spur-the-moment offer, but he doesn't. He crosses his arms, hugging himself and for a minute he doesn't look at me. Then he shrugs and says, “Sure.”

 

Something's definitely different about him.

 

“Alright, let's go. You ever been on a bus before? Not like a school one, but a public one.”

 

“Of course I have!” We don't look at each other as we walk, but I can picture his expressions, “You're always asking me these weird questions. Like if I lived under a rock or something.”

 

“Not a rock. A mansion. With servants and limos and a swimmin' pool full of money.”

 

“What? Why would you think – I'm not—I'm not rich … Shit. Were we too obvious?”

 

“Normal people our age don't have wads of money in their wallet, Jean.”

 

He sighs and we go under light, “Well, let me just tell you, _I'm_ not the rich one. It's my parents. I'm just lucky enough to live with them until I make something of myself. Sometimes I wish I'd grown up in a place like this.”

 

“No you don't.”

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because everyone looks happy here. No one's happy where I'm from.”

 

“Everyone, no one. Those are two heavy extremes, don't you think?”

 

“I guess,” I feel him looking at me, “So, why are you always wearing that?”

 

I look down as if I don't know what was covering most my skin. I'd zipped my coverall half way down before I left Reiner's place and tied it around my waist, it works just like a sweater. He can see my collarbones and bony arms since the wife-beater I'm wearing doesn't really hide anything but my torso. I try not to feel inadequate about the differences in our bodies.

 

“It's so I don't get dirty from workin' on cars with my friend.”

 

“You want to be a mechanic?”

 

“No, not me, he does. I want to not smell so bad.”

 

He sniffs the air, “I don't smell anything but honeysuckle.”

 

I look at him to see if he's lying. He isn't. Sometimes I feel bad that I'd pegged Jean for being the stereotypical fancy pants we usually get around here. He certainly has the qualities, but he's … different. He's rude, but never hurts your feelings. The air around him is intimidating, but he doesn't take advantage of it. And even if it isn't aware of what he displays in his eyes when he shops, I know Jean's got a love for something only he could understand.

 

I know it's love because he's keeping it a secret.

 

“You ever tasted a honeysuckle?” I ask, the quiet I usually find comfort in is making my fingers tick.

 

“Uh, no. What? You can eat that stuff? I thought it was just a flower.”

 

“Even a flower has more than one use, Jean,” I point to the dark shrubs on the fence we were passing. The house before it is bright with a family probably watching late-night television. I'm sure they wouldn't mind letting us taking a couple, “Wanna try it?”

 

He hesitates, looking at the direction of my finger before giving in, “If I die I'm going to kill you.”

 

“You can't—there's no way that can happen.”

 

I leave him there as I tip toe to the darkness. The low lamp light hides me as I pluck a few yellow-white flowers dangling from the rotting fence. It smells like my childhood, and how I used to do this with my friends when we played in each others backyards. It kind of makes me sad to think this was never part of Jean's youth. Maybe he had better ways to enjoy himself.

 

After having a handful of honeysuckle in my palm, I make a nest for it in the folds of my tied up coverall arm sleeves – like a nest or fanny pack. Jean watches me pace myself back to the sidewalk, curious as I stand in front of him ready to teach.

 

“Here, this is how you do it. You have to be real careful or else you'll lose it,” I say, taking one in my hand.

 

“Lose what?”

 

“First, you nip the end there with your nail. If you take it out of the vine right, it'll still have a bit of green, I think it's easier that way rather when it already has a hole,” I show him with black grease underneath my nails. He doesn't make a remark to my sanitation, “And after that you pull the, um, well I'm not sure what this is called but you pull the string out and watch.”

 

He scoots closer as I carefully bring the flower up to our faces. I know in the light, he can see the tiny, innocent drop of honey hanging on the end of the string. He blinks back when I stick it in my mouth.

 

“H-How does it taste?” He asks.

 

I spit the string out and he watches it fly off, “It taste sweet. I don't really have anything to compare it to. Here, take one. It won't do nothing to you.”

 

He does, and he copies what I've taught him almost exactly. He isn't patient when he rips the string out and the droplet ends up disappearing – lost like I warned. When he tries a second time, I can see the wonder of the world on his face like if he was transported back to being a six year old child. That's when everything was made out of magic.

 

When his tongue hit the honey, he squeezed his eyes shut and savored. Jean could be magic.

 

I end up getting distracted. Even in the dark, I can still see some of that handsomeness I saw at the diner some time ago. He felt new to me that day, maybe _that's_ when I'd got the first peek at the real him. I don't know. He's got a bunch of layers that make me feel itchy to get to know all of them.

 

“Can I have them, Marco?”

 

I don't make fun of his new love, “Yes.”

 

We continue along the sidewalk after he cradles the flowers in a hammock made out of his shirt, the end of the neighborhood is another three minutes away. Jean notices this and changes our positions so that he's standing near the road where the cars will be driving by while I'm next to the houses.

 

I don't say anything to that, I don't think I can. Jean doesn't, either. He stays licking at the honeysuckle until there's nothing left of his pile, and when I look back, I see his trail behind us like cookie crumbs. Even when he's finished, though, we don't talk. Not until a thought shoots me in the head that I don't want to entertain. I resort to using him as a diversion to forget.

 

“Hey, Jean?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are you goin' to tell me what you did with all that stuff you made me buy?”

 

“Sure,” He kicks a rock, “But it's not that interesting.”

 

“It's already interestin' without you having to tell me a peep about it.”

 

I hear him laugh, “Alright, but I warned you,” He clears his throat, “It's nothing special, really. I just like that stuff. I'm not allowed to wear it around my family and their acquaintances, but when I sneak out to hang out with my friends, I put it to good use. I wear all of it and hide it when I come back so they don't throw it away again.”

 

“Throw it away? All of it?”

 

“Yep, all of it.”

 

“I have questions.”

 

“Ask away, we have time, right?”

 

“We do.”

 

“Go ahead, then.”

 

“Well, I'm just wonderin' why you're not allowed to wear what you want. And why they would throw away perfectly good clothing. Do they know you read?”

 

“Yes, they know I read! But … they can't know about the other things because I'll get in trouble.”

 

“In trouble for what?”

 

“I don't know how to explain it. It's just that, being _different_ is bad where I'm from. I'm not supposed to like what I like, just like how I'm not supposed to eat meat because then all of our _friends_ – which really is just my dad's wife's friends – will think we're insensitive and cruel. It's their newest trend – oh, but keeping our fur and leather is perfectly fine!”

 

“If you're not supposed to like what you like, then what _can_ you like?”

 

“I can like what my family likes. And be like them. Be what they want me to be. It's not that bad – it's not like they're asking me to put on a clown suite and paint dicks all over my face or whatever. But it's not _me_ , you know? It gets suffocating.”

 

“Even in your big house?”

 

“Especially in my big house.”

 

I can't tell him I understand or that I do know what he means. Usually I would because I find that people like to know their suffering is shared, but I stay quiet this time. Jean looks like me right now despite our many differences in how and where we were raised. His pain is different, and I don't know what it feels like, but I _can_ acknowledge his frustrations.

 

Jean cracks his fingers and takes in a deep breath. I don't have to look at him to know the gears in his mind are trying to fix something that'd came unscrewed, so I let him take a minute to fix it. It's hard to think for yourself when you've always had other people pushing your buttons and yanking at your levers to get what they want from you.

 

“Ergo,” He says, running a hand through his hair and then hugging himself again, “to answer your question, I put away all the stuff you've bought for me in a suitcase and when I go home, I'm going to hide it again. But I will use it, I'm not going to let it collect dust or get eaten by moths.”

 

“Ok, I'm glad you'll still wear it.” We're at the end of the neighborhood, a car zooms passed us as we turn left into the sidewalk. No more lamp poles. I think about asking him why he was sent here, but already he seems tired from my question and I don't want to bother him any more.

 

“Now I have something I wanted to ask you,” Jean states, pushing the attention on to me. He doesn't wait for me to say anything, “What's the story behind your hair?”

 

“What do you mean? There is no story.”

 

“Well, most boys don't have long hair like that. Especially during summer. You don't want to cut it?”

 

“Does it look that bad?” I'm joking because I really don't know the answer. And because if I did, I don't think I'd want to tell him.

 

“No, but I thought you were a girl the first time I saw you. I thought, 'maybe it won't be so bad being here after all' … and then I saw you had stubble and no boobs whatsoever.”

 

My laugh comes loud and unexpected. It surprises me so much I have to clamp a hand over my mouth at the fright it gave me. Jean chuckles at the painful smack I gave myself, bumping me on my shoulder with his. The gesture, however meaningless or small it was, make the corners of my lips curve into a smile. A real one. He really might be a magician.

 

“You're messin' with me.”

 

“Am not.”

 

I look at him and he's already looking at me. His eyes are making me panic, but I still don't believe his words, “So you're tellin' me that even in my dirty clothes you thought I was alright lookin'?”

 

“A bit more than alright looking, yeah.”

 

“What kinda girls are you into, Jean? I think your standards should be raised by a few hundred. No, a few _thousand_.”

 

He's not laughing anymore, “No, they're high enough.”

 

“ … You think – you _really_ think I'm pretty?”

 

“Mm-hmm. I said that already.”

 

“Awe, c'mon. You can't be serious.”

 

“And why not?”

 

I trip on myself and glance at him. He looks mad so I stop my playful tone, “Well, because … because I'm not anything pretty. Nothin' compared to a girl especially.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you you're ugly?” Jean asks. Yeah, he was definitely mad now, but I don't know what I've done wrong.

 

“No, it's just the truth. It's-It's alright, I'm OK with knowing that.”

 

“The truth? What the hell does that even really mean anymore,” Jean's voice goes hard, “I can look at a pebble on the sidewalk and think it's just another rock, but to you maybe it could be the shiniest of any minerals you've ever seen. My truth isn't wrong, and neither is yours. Actually, it's just an opinion. That's all the truth is sometimes, opinions.”

 

Has Jean always talked funny like that? I think I've touched a sore spot because he isn't finished talking.

 

“And you don't have to be a girl to be pretty, there's lots of pretty boys out there, I'm sure. You're—you're like one of them. Look at your face, your freckles and lashes – Jesus, not even my mother who's paid for some has them that long. And your hair, it's-it's nice too, you should leave it down more often because it suits your face. You're tall, and your body is—I like— _bah_! The point is be more confident! Alright?”

 

A car passes us again and I see that his face is pink, “So if I were a girl—”

 

“Argh! He didn't listen!” He smacks my chest and leaves his hand there. I stare at him, stunned, “No, don't even finish that sentence! I see _you_ , Marco, I know you're a guy! And I'm telling you right here, right now, that you're not ugly. You're the shiniest mineral I've ever seen.”

 

He peels his hand away and shoots it in his pocket. He hangs is head low as we continue our walk – I think we're both embarrassed. But the feeling doesn't stick with me too long because I've figured something out, “Jean, were you waiting for me tonight?”

 

He doesn't deny it, “I was.”

 

“How come?”

 

The question gets him quiet and I see that he's thinking of his answer real good. A part of me guesses as to why he's acting different. Walls have ears, walls listen – rarely in a good way – and sometimes they share stories that aren't theirs with more heartache than the original ever held. I get the feeling Jean knows me now, but I was hoping I could've lasted longer as a stranger. He won't be here long enough to pretend he doesn't know like everyone else has.

 

“Since when is waiting for a friend a crime?” He's dodged me.

 

We're close to the station now. I can see the black, metal chairs in the far distance with no one in sight. Like Jean, I'm always alone, too. And if he were a magician, I'd be the spell that makes things vanish. But my trick only works with emotions rather than bunnies or people. If only it could work with people. Then that way I'd have the power to bring them back.

 

~.~

 

~A Door hangs from its hinges, waiting. The house It lives in has been vacant for many years now, but it isn't the first time it's taken so long for It to get a new family. It's actually very rare for houses to quickly get filled up once the old owners have decided it's time to move on. The Door doesn't mind the wait, It likes to remember the ones that came before the new.

 

This Door in particular resides in one of the only two bedrooms of the house. It takes pride in the fact that it's the entrance of the master bedroom, but there are cracks and chips on its oak wood to remind It to stay humble again. The first residents weren't very careful with it.

 

They'd been teenagers, fresh out of high school and enrolled in college. There'd been about four of them living in the small house. At first, it'd all been nice. The boys were excited about being on their own and having a place they could afford. But it only took about three months for them to realize how hard it truly was to have only yourself to depend on.

 

You're never finished getting to know a person, and the friends handled this revelation with their bodies. On many occasions, It would hear their yelling from the living room, its polished wood creaked before they neared it. The Door would get slammed or kicked when two of the boys would fight with one another. Once it was _for_ the master bedroom. Another time it was for a girl.

 

Years later after the four acquaintances had decided it was best to move back home, the Door got a new owner. It wasn't very confident they'd stay since its once spotless, white coat was now a little cracked and dented. But they did. They were a man and a woman and she stayed even after she had the baby.

 

The Door had watched her grow from a pink bean to a clumsy toddler – to watching her being cradled in her fathers arms to watching her pigtails wiggle as she dashed into her parents room to show them her newest drawings. Sometimes those drawings even ended up on the door! It loved that little girl, she would talk to the crayons, the markers, and even to It before she'd get caught showing her talent.

 

They left when she was eight. The mother had finally seen the other woman one early morning when she'd rushed back home halfway on her way to work. She'd forgotten her work ID and noticed the silver Toyota in their driveway. The Door had heard her open the entrance, heard her walking up the steps and breathing through her nostrils. It'd seen the pained look on her face when she opened it to find the other woman who'd been visiting every week since the first month they'd moved, in bed with her husband.

 

After they'd left, the house got quiet again. It missed the little girl and the artwork she would draw on its cracked surface. It missed watching her go into her room across the hall, but it was OK. The next owners came a couple years later and left happily when the father got a better job. They'd also had children who decorated it with stickers and snot.

 

When they left, the Door became the guardian of an old man and his old bulldog. They weren't talkers, but they loved each other and always slept in the same room. The Door hadn't even minded getting peed on every once in a while. After them was a small family with a single mother that made sure to respect the house, and after them were two girls that only pretended to be friends when they stepped foot outside the bedroom.

 

The door had always been opened to whoever inhabited its bedroom, allowing their family, pets and close friends to enter and enjoy the company of the owner. That's why, when the lonely father with his only son moved in, it grew sad that its job changed to staying locked. Always locked.

 

Where there should've been a bed, the father had placed a large desk. Where there should've been a dresser, he had placed boxes upon boxes on top of one of another – closed and never once opened. And where there should've been clothes in the closet, there was absolutely nothing. The bedroom had turned into an office, but the door never saw the man work. He would enter and quickly lock the world away and drink.

 

In one of his many desk drawers, he would have small bottles of alcohol. And for many hours, he would be silent, turning himself into thoughts that'd pour out into mute tears. Sometimes he'd write. He had a tiny leather notebook he'd scribble into on the good days when he didn't feel thirsty or sad. Those days didn't come often.

 

Despite the two being a small family, they were the ones that stayed the longest. The Door watched the boy grow up from an energetic child to a reserved and somewhat still charismatic young man. He'd helped his father around the house a lot. It'd watch him vacuum the whole house – but never the locked room and watched him clean the bathroom – but never the one in the locked room. He'd do laundry, cook and do some maintenance work outside. He was a good boy, he did everything he wasn't told to do.

 

But being fifteen meant you were still reckless. Many times, The Door had caught him looking at It with desperate curiosity. When he was a child, he'd learned quickly that that place was always off limits. He'd listened then, but then one late afternoon when his father was still at work, he'd found the keys on the carpet floor. The father had been drunk the night before, locking it but never feeling the silver slipping from his coarse fingers.

 

That day the boy had grown cotton in his ears and had stopped listening. He'd slipped the key into the lock and the Door had felt it click. It'd been so happy to finally be opened without being slammed shut only seconds later. The boy had gently pushed it wide, looking inside without actually moving in. But the Door hadn't minded his waiting at all.

 

When he was finished though, the boy had slowly went in. He'd switched on the only light in there, which was an old lamp they'd bought from a yard sale, and wondered at everything inside the dull room. It hadn't been cold inside, but the boy shivered as he fingered the desks draws. He'd never opened them, instead, he'd opted for figuring out what was inside those boxes.

 

Once he'd lifted the third lid, the emptiness on his face had twisted into the hurt the Door remembered looking at from the first wife that'd lived there. It didn't really understand why the boy had fallen to his knees and cried that way. There were only pictures of a woman inside those boxes. So man pictures and letters and old drawings, pieces of cloth and … and something else.

 

The boy had stopped rummaging when he'd picked up a peculiar photo. There hadn't been any color to it, only made out of blackness with white squiggles and shapes. The Door could've sworn it saw a head and tiny arms in that photo, but that couldn't have been it. Babies don't look that way. Whatever it was, the boy knew. He'd cried and cried with it for a long time. Cried until the father came home.

 

That'd been the first time the man had raised his voice at the son. He hadn't offered any explanations when the boy had pleaded for them, the man had looked just as tortured as the other but somehow weaker, more fragile and easier to break.

 

After that night, the house had grown even quieter. And after three months, the house was once again empty. Now the door was waiting for a new owner, but every once in a while, it always thought of the boy and the father and if they ever spoke of the lovely woman smiling in the photos with her round belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A Little Lair For A Little Bear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rd0R2IH1Eyc)


	6. Salsa and Cinnamon Flecks In Whipped Cream

Nails long enough to beat the size of a grown mans finger plummet like thunderstorm rain. They look pretty going down, twisting in different shiny directions before scattering all over the cemented floor. They sound like a homemade wind-chime, they sound like music until they roll to a stop almost fifteen seconds later.

 

Connie taps my head, "Hey, butterfingers, time to go."

 

"Wait, I have to—"

 

"Just leave it for later, right Reiner?"

 

He's not looking at us when he talks, he's too concentrated on getting glue out of his hands, "Uh, yeah. Nobody parks in 'ere anyways. We gotta go, I told Historia we'd be there earlier than five and it's already this late."

 

"Ok." I say.

 

We've been in the garage since ten in the morning, working on our cars until, well, until now. Bamey isn't home and he usually cooks for us when we're working like this, but since he's out driving and delivering, Reiner's dad is the second best chef in the house. He heated Hot Pockets for us for breakfast and we ate cereal for lunch. Now we're leaving for dinner.

 

I don't think he and Reiner's uncle wanted to hang out and watch us today like they have been for the past few days. It's almost a hundred degrees out and we stink.

 

Even with deodorant and cologne, we still smell like the day's sweat. A shower is impossible at this point. We had to be at Historia's place an hour ago, but I don't feel bad stinking because I'm not alone on that. We all look pretty bad too, even as we undress from our coveralls and reveal our dress clothes underneath.

 

Since we're headed to a high class area, I came with black jeans and with the only dress shirt I own. It's the color of red wine and it first belonged to Hanji. I like it though, it makes me feel like I'm a writer who drinks tea and can afford to buy Vans before they turn from black to purple. I try not to get self-conscious about my shoes. I try not to think of how I should've brought an extra change of clothes.

 

"Why are we goin' there, again?" I ask as we duck underneath the half-closed garage, “I know she's cooking, but why?”

 

"You really don't kn—"

 

"She's having a thing," Reiner bumps Connie in the ribs before going to the passenger's side of the truck, "It's one of those get togethers she likes to do. Nothing special behind it. Right, Con?"

 

Connie opens the driver's seat and slams it hard when he's in, "Right."

 

"Hey, Con, can I ride in the bed?" I ask, I want to cool my sweat before we get there.

 

The windows are down so he hears me, "Just open up the window when you get back there so I know you haven't been blown away."

 

I don't say anything about that and hop to the trunk. There's a literal mattress bed on there, decorated with tiny, pink flowers and green leaves. It looks like it could've belonged to a Sister, but nope. It used to be Reiner's when he was thirteen. For some reason Connie wasn't too happy about him throwing it away and kept it for himself.

 

Once we get moving, I open the rectangular window and see the back of two heads inside. Me and Reiner make eye contact through the rear-view mirror and he winks. I wink back.

 

"You're s'posed to wink with one eye, not two." He laughs from inside.

 

"I thought I did."

 

I don't hear them laughing because the air picks up and it floods my ears. Connie's not a good driver, he's been in three accidents already and they've all been his fault, but he's the only one of the three of us who has a driver's license, so we can't be too picky about our means of transportation. I'm just wondering why I didn't think this through as I sit properly in order not to slam myself against the sides with his sharp turns.

 

Today I'm not so smart.

 

But the view is nice. Even though we're still in June, the town's already decorating itself in red, white and blue. There are banners and posters stuck on store doors, windows and light poles, telling those who don't know yet how busy it's going to be on the forth of July. Most shops close on that day, the only ones who still work are the folks who don't care for celebrating and dog kennel workers.

 

From inside I hear the radio playing, but they seem to be searching for a good station because the voices keep changing.

 

"— _out on the road but no one comes along_ —"

 

"— _says I'm blue as a robin's egg_ —"

 

"— _for you, for you, for you, for you, for you_ —"

 

Connie snaps, "Just pick one already!"

 

"Where's the pop? I'm looking for pop!"

 

"I don't know, check in the hundreds!"

 

"Ah, I just finished the hundreds!"

 

"Then just go through all of it again!"

 

He doesn't find it because they settle in on a country station. They go quiet and I hope they're not really mad at one another because sometimes the heat can make these guys unreasonably irritated.

 

"Can I close the window?" I yell so they can hear me. Someone on the sidewalk looks at me and I wave.

 

"Why?" I hear Reiner yell back.

 

"So you can turn roll up the other windows and turn the air on. It's hot."

 

"Naw, it's alright," Connie speeds up, "We'll be there in like five minutes."

 

It should've taken us fifteen, but he was almost right. We got to Historia's house in about seven. I hadn't tied my hair bun strong enough and it flopped as Connie sped up her driveway and parked behind the cars that'd made it there before us. After all that abuse, I decide to release my locks from the weak scrunchy and stuck it in my pocket.

 

I slowly climb off the back and wiggle my legs and arms and hair to fix my appearance, but Reiner ruffles my head when he gets out and I give up on trying to look good.

 

"Everyone's here," I say, walking with them to the entrance.

 

Eren's ancient Toyota is sitting in front of ours and there's a purple Chevy next to his that belongs to Annie. I think the rest carpooled or got a ride from a parent because the only other vehicles there were Historia's and... and I'm not sure I've seen that one before.

 

"Whoa, did they get a new car?” Connie's eyes bug out when he sees the Lexus, he hovers around it without touching, "Didn't Mr. Reiss just buy an Audi?"

 

Never mind, I think I have seen this car before.

 

Reiner's knocks on the door without waiting for us to get there, "You know, when you have money you don't wait for special occasions to go buying things."

 

"Oh yeah? And how would you know? You ain't got no money like the rest of us."

 

"... Shut up."

 

The door swings wide open, hitting us with cool air, and we see Historia on the other side. Man oh man she's pretty.

 

"Hey, guys! Finally, you've made it, I was startin' to worry Connie got in another accident again," She chuckles and we feel our frustrations disappear, "Come in, get out of the heat!"

 

We don't wait until she asks again, obediently going in to air conditioning and cleanness. There are voices in the back laughing and talking as she shuts the door behind us.

 

"Histor--"

 

"Krista," She gently reminds me. I forgot she made up a nickname for herself. When I asked her about why she changed her name, she said she didn't think it was feminine enough.

 

"Krista, what're we celebratin'?" I ask.

 

"What do you ... ?"

 

I don't look at her when she talks because as pretty as she is, her house is prettier. It's amazing, like one of those magazine rooms, and I don't think I'll ever get used to being here. When you first come in, there's a private room to the left that holds their piano and family portraits like a museum. And like a museum, it's also got art sculptures and paintings her mom's won at auctions.

 

To the right is one of two living rooms. Its got leather seats – _real_ leather – and there's a giant chandelier on top. I'm always scared that one day it's going to fall out of nowhere and break the glass coffee table underneath it and their cat that likes to nap there.

 

"You really don't know what day it is?" She asks and I look at her again.

 

"Told you," Connie mumbles. Reiner's already left.

 

She takes me by the arm, smiling at me as we start walking towards all our other friends, "Try and think about it for a bit."

 

I stare at the white linoleum floors and think. I see my reflection and think. I tuck hair behind my ear and think. I can smell my favorite foods and it hits me.

 

"Oh … Shit, it's my birthday, isn't it?"

 

She laughs at my reaction and squeezes my skinny arm.

 

"I don't get how you can forget _the day you were born_ ," Connie says.

 

He doesn't know there are lots of things that can make a person forget.

 

We go down a hall that leads to the kitchen and I stop. I always forget how many friends I really have since the two that live the closest to me are the ones I hang out with the most. But here I have my friends from wood shop: Ymir, Annie and Sasha. My friends in language arts: Armin, Mikasa and my homeroom friends: Bertholdt, Eren and of course Reiner. We've all been together since way before puberty, too. They know me.

 

"HAPPY BIRHTDAY, MARCO!"

 

I flinch when they scream and Histor—I mean Krista—snaps at them because they scared her, too. My heart feels full when I see them smiling at me like that, like I deserve having people care for me the way they do. I don't cry. The love I have for them isn't the sad kind. 

 

"Get yourself an apron, Birthday Boy, we've got shit to grill," Ymir tells me with a knife pointing my way.

 

They don't give me time to be thankful. Most of them are shy and like to avoid sincerity.

 

"Is it barbecue?" I ask, mouth pooling with saliva already.

 

Eren pats my back when he hands me a yellow apron with abstract shapes on it, "Better believe it. We're makin' a whole course meal. Appetizers, main dish _and_ desert. How does that sound?"

 

I can only smile and nod because what can I say? I don't think the words I'm looking for to show my gratitude have been invented yet.

 

"We're cookin' on Krista's deck when we're done prepping," Armin tells me as he makes space for my body around the kitchen island, "She says it's a new one, so imagine how good it's goin' to taste when we're done cooking."

 

He's teasing me, but I pretend to swoon and he giggles, "What can I help with?"

 

“We're almost done, but. …” Krista, busy tying her own apron, hears me and answers for Armin, "Actually, I've a friend down in the basement getting more ingredients. Think you can help 'im bring some stuff up? He's been there for an awful while now."

 

"Ok." I obey, I get the feeling I know this friend, but there's nothing I can think of that can connect the two so I try not to get my hopes up.

 

Sasha smacks my behind as I walk passed her, blowing me a kiss. Her actions still startle me stupid every time, but I've learned how to quickly react to her harmless flirting. I pretend to purposely avoid catching her kiss and leave her wailing with offense as I open the door to the basement.

 

It's not like most basements. Krista's got white carpeted floors on her stairs, and they don't creak or cry when you step on them. There's also enough light to see the end of the other side unlike the dark kind they show in horror movies. There's more carpet after that, there's even a Persian rug.

 

“I don't know what this shit is, but let's take it anyways.”

 

I hear a voice.

 

It's been a while since I felt my heart speed up like the engine on a train pumping after every stir. When I see the bewildered boy with his tan hands on his hips staring down at the items on the floor, I feel steam coming out of my imaginary funnel.

 

"Hello," I walk closer to his pile of random supplies, remembering what I was wearing and what Jean had said to me days and days ago about finding me in something other than my coveralls, "My name is Marco Bodt, it's nice to meet you."

 

Jean's eyes go big like the first time we met. They trace down my hair, to my shirt and pants. They don't look at my shoes, stopping halfway at my knees, and instead trail back up to my face. I see him swallow.

 

"I-I should've known the Marco Krista was talking about was you," He clears his throat and crosses his arms, recuperating from ... something, "Especially with the way she described you."

 

"How'd she describe me?"

 

He gets a look on his face and my stomach flops, "You're here to help, right? Start with carrying this."

 

"Ok, but Jean, why are you here? I mean, how do you know Historia?"

 

He hands me a heavy basket filled with cold vegetables. His skin is cold, too and I start wondering how long he had the fridge at the corner of the room open, "I knew her before she moved here. I saw her by coincidence outside an ice cream parlor one day and, well, yeah. Now get moving, you're in charge of the salsa."

 

"That's my specialty."

 

"I know."

 

I look at him and he looks embarrassed, "Krista told me that, too. Ok? I'm not some stalker stalking you."

 

I don't ask him why they'd even talk about that. Instead we head upstairs after he's geared up with two large sodas and a heavy grocery bag. When we get back to the kitchen, it reminds me of the ones on TV where they have competitions. Everyone's busy marinating, chopping, stabbing and talking.

 

Soon we fall in sync with the way they're working and it doesn't take long for them to notice how me and Jean move around one another. He groans when I make myself a spot next to him at the table across from the kitchen. The whole place is open and free, so we see and hear everyone even from the second living room where Annie was turning on the television for music.

 

"So, y'all know each other?" Sasha asks, gloves oozing with barbecue.

 

"Nope." Jean lies.

 

"We're best friends." I lie, too.

 

"Stop being nosy, Sash, we've got lots of meat to prepare," Connie reminds her and she goes back to half concentrating.

 

I get up to look for my own materials after putting out my ingredients. Jean finishes his own organizing and sits up at the same time I do, he scowls at me like if I planned it. But I really didn't.

 

While I open cabinets and find what I'm looking for, he's pulling out a glass bowl from the freezer. It seems he's made himself right at home and I don't envy his comfort. Jean belongs in a house like this.

 

I stop paying attention to him when I'm seated and chopping away tomatoes, leaving the onions for the very last thing I'll cut. The sour juice squeezes out when the blade makes contact and I can feel how cold it is on the inside. They're like balloons, the way they expel so much liquid whether you cut or throw them.

 

I use to be able to cook, but not anymore. Things like this make my stomach hurt now, but today I'm having a good day so it doesn't bother me that much. The weather in my head is partly cloudy with zero chance of rain and a little sunshine. But I'm still hiding in the shade. I don't think I'll ever be able to run away from that.

 

As my red cubes grow, I feel Jean beside me and watch as he pours heavy cream in the bowl he'd pulled out from the freezer. The gold skin around his hands pop with veins.

 

"What're you doin'?" I ask, really curious. I'm happy he doesn't ignore me.

 

"I've got cheesecake in the fridge and this is the topping," He looks at me and laughs, "Don't make that face. I thought you liked sweet stuff."

 

"Yeah, but that stuff you got there's not sweet. And I've never heard of heavy cream bein' used as a topping before."

 

"No, you idiot, it's not the—I'm making whipped cream."

 

"Whipped cream? You sure that's what you're makin'?"

 

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure. You'll be damned sure when you get a taste of my _cinnamon_ whipped cream, too."

 

"Is that an innuendo for somethin'?" Sasha yells from the island.

 

I don't get it, but Jean turns the color of my tomatoes and Annie smacks the back of her head with a spatula, "Remember," She says, "Not everyone here is like us."

 

“I can take a joke,” Jean growls.

 

“That's not what she meant,” Ymir pops a grape into her mouth, her mission completed for the grill, “She's talking about how gay we are.”

 

Everyone looks at Jean and he looks so lost, I feel sorry for him – I really do – but I can't help the smile on my face as he stares extra hard at me.

 

"Wait. You're all queers?"

 

"That's not a problem, is it?" Mikasa asks, not really in a nice way. My smile fades. I'd forgotten how these guys can get.

 

"But," He points at me, "He isn't."

 

"Ha!" Ymir laughs, "He's the gayest one of all after me! Marco, I can't believe you lied to someone. I'm kinda proud of you right now."

 

I feel a part of me wither when Jean looks like he just stepped into school without wearing any pants or underwear. I think Eren notices his hurt pride, too, because he covers for me and says what I currently can't.

 

"Don't get mad, lying's just a defense mechanism we've gotta use," He opens the backyard door and Annie goes through with a plate of raw meat, "You know, just in case people turn out to be homophobes and whatnot. Not that I have a problem beatin' on them if they are."

 

Mikasa and Armin follow Annie with plates of shrimp kabobs. Sasha and Connie, finished with marinating ribs and not good with tension, leave as well. When I look out to see who's in the back, Reiner's already there with Bertholdt. I hadn't noticed when they started preparing the grill.

 

Only Krista, Ymir and the two of us are left. And Ymir doesn't try to hide how awkward she feels now that we've all been outed. Her joke might've gone too far.

 

"Um, I think they're strugglin' to turn the dang thing on," Krista's nervous when she laughs, "C'mon, babe."

 

Once we're alone, Jean starts beating the heavy cream with more power than he probably should. I don't talk. Not yet. I'm not all that good with confrontations, I never have been and I don't think I ever will be. The things I keep inside, if someone's hurt me, I don't say anything. And I'm thinking maybe Jean is like that, too.

 

"I'm gonna go look for garlic," I don't think he hears me over the extreme whisking he's doing, so I get up and leave.

 

As I trudge downstairs, my mind starts going through all the reasons why he'd be mad at me. It can't be because I lied. We haven't known each other long enough to feel betrayed like that. It can't be because he got embarrassed by Sasha's comment, he doesn't seem the type to care about superficial words. I don't know. I don't know Jean.

 

All I know is that there's no garlic in this fridge.

 

"Hey!"

 

I hear Jean upstairs. His footsteps trace the line of mine and soon he's stomping down the steps. The sound makes my nerves jump and horror plays with the memories in my head that I've been so good at hiding behind my cloud.

 

"J-Jean?"

 

His face is pink again when he makes it down, and he looks absolutely furious. But it's the quiet kind of anger where lips are pursed into white and the face is solid, "I'm not like that."

 

I don't say anything. I can still hear his stomping rattling in my ears. I've heard them before and I can feel their familiar claws scratching at my head.

 

"I'm not some fucking homophobe, got it? I'll never be one. I'm not a fucking homophobe."

 

"Ok," I close the fridge and nod, "Ok, I believe you."

 

“Do you, really? You know, my cousin—he's … yeah, but the other guy isn't and we're not those kind of fucking people, OK?”

 

I can't move.

 

"Are you listening to me? … Hey, you alright?" Jean's stiff shoulders seem to stiffen even more, "You look pale. I-I didn't mean to scare you like that."

 

My mouth twitches to say I'm alright, but it's not moving either. I just stare at him with wide, unblinking eyes as my pulse begins to race faster than it did earlier.

 

I want the rattling to stop, really, really stop. I can hear it upstairs. No, it's downstairs. No. It's not even in this neighborhood. It's at my old house, and no one's stomping their feet. They're banging their hands against my front door and no matter how hard I try to ignore them, they just won't go away. Why won't they go away?

 

"Fuck! You're having a panic attack!"

 

My lips are quivering, my ribs and limbs are shaking to the pounding at my door. I don't feel or see Jean when he holds my head in his hands, I don't hear him when he asks if it's OK to touch me like this or that he really needs me to concentrate on his voice. I'm drowning in our closed closet and no matter how hard I take in air, it doesn't help calm me down.

 

I just don't want the man to open my door. He's going to tell me something I'd been expecting, something I knew I could've avoided. I'm horrible. I'm so so so so horrible.

 

"I know it feels scary," Jean's panicking in a different way, "But you're fine. It's scary, but it won't hurt you. You're fine. Look at me, Marco."

 

My eyes snap to his and something's welling up inside of me. I'm scared I'm going to pop like a tomato, and if I do, I know I'll deserve it.

 

~.~

 

~Take the perspective of a mother. She's walking along the sidewalk next to the bustling street while she's pushing her baby in the stroller. When her husband takes the car to work, she's left to fend for the two of them. But she knows she's a strong woman and takes no shame in the way she walks to the gas station for just a slushie and chips.

 

Today, though, is exceptionally hotter and the air is heavier with overdue rain. Her short hair is frizzy and it itches her face when a truck flies by. It doesn't matter how much of her slushie she drinks, the cold disappears as soon as it drowns in her belly. Luckily her baby is safe under the shade of the stroller's canopy, giggling at the blur of colors as they continue with slow steps.

 

She thinks about taking a break when they take a short cut near a convenience store, but it's a Wednesday and her husband comes home early on Wednesday's with expectations and demands that she sometimes wishes she could shred like the chicken she was supposed to be finished tearing apart by now.

 

She thinks her husband can wait.

 

A man twice her height almost bumps into the baby when he gets out of the store. His eyes go wide and hair bounces at his quick reflexes to halt.

 

“Oh, hello there!” The man is still surprised, “Didn't see you there little guy!”

 

The mother smiles and pulls back the canopy now that they were safely in the shade of the small roof, “Actually, she's a little lady.”

 

Right on cue, her baby laughs and flails her chubby arms around, reaching for the man who has a bit of gray on his temples. Her daughter isn't usually this comfortable around men, their facial hair scares her because the father hates growing his own out. But this bearded man that holds a compelling smile and voice seems to be an exception for the child.

 

“What a good girl,” He praises, only letting her touch his fingers, “She five months old?”

 

“Yes! Great guess, people usually confuse her for three months since she's so tiny. You must be a daddy yourself. I bet you have a baby girl of your own, huh?”

 

The man straightens up and shoves something in his back pocket. He looks at her and her smile almost fades just as quickly as the ice in her cup did. She's never seen eyes so dull before, so brown with no warmth or happiness whatsoever – it was as if she were looking into the reflection of someone who'd already parted ways with the world.

 

“Actually I do,” His dimples deepen, “Well, it was nice meetin' the two of you lovely women. I have to get going back to mine now.”

 

“N-Nice meetin' you, too sir. Have a good day.”

 

He leaves with a nod and she curiously watches him until her baby starts fussing at boredom. They don't go in the store anymore, the woman feels like going home rather than delaying the inevitable walk she has to endure. It's a short cut from the original way she'd came from, but it's a harder journey.

 

She sings to her baby even though the cars are louder than her, she has to take a break near the shade of a tree when a plastic bag gets tangled up in one of the stroller's wheels, and her back almost gives out when they're halfway up a steep hill. Her legs ache and her armpits are stained, but the mind is a paradise. In her head, the chicken is seasoned to perfection and she doesn't burn the rice – or make it too soggy.

 

While she's dreaming of a husband that doesn't mind her cooking, a man in his mid forties with gray temples is five minutes away from home. He thinks of nothing, of no one and hears only the leaves in the wind and the engines of cars. He's tired.

 

While the mind can be a means of escape for some, to others its someplace you can never run away from. It's a black hole that only knows how to take the happiness you've manage to accumulate, it sucks you right in and clouds your care with a thick haze.

 

Marco's dad has been tired for over a decade.

 

So when he sees a truck down the road, a switch finally decides to flick for no particular reason. Or rather, his reasons have piled up so high that jumping is his only way of making it stop. Marco's dad steps out, exhaustion finally leaving his broken body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Crash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13RPBRw25XU)


	7. Dreams And Fantasies

Being alone is a form of torture. Have you noticed? When people fall into the hands of the sadistic and cruel, they're beaten close to the point of almost dying without being granted the mercy. It's their only form of human interaction until the Beater, the Captor, the Evil is gone, leaving them alone to wonder what they'd done to deserve this. Leaving them alone to fill in the horror that'll be waiting for them until next time.

 

Sometimes you don't even realize your friends or family or loved ones are doing that to you. Sometimes neither of you know it until someone snaps.

 

No one's hurting me in that way anymore. But I'm alone and it aches in my chest and it tortures me when I'm awake too late at night. It's been aching for a long time now, but I haven't been listening to it. Not until it started knocking for permission.

 

"Want something to drink?"

 

After I'd calmed myself enough from my panic, me and Jean sat down on the floor. He pressed my head against his heart and told me to get the rest of my breathing like his, and I tried but I'm still shaking.

 

"You're doing good, you're alright now."

 

I wipe my face for the hundredth time and hair sticks to my skin. I try to only feel his body heat, hear the _thump-thump-thump_ in his chest and smell the musk mixing with his cologne that's radiating off of his neck. It's slowly bringing me back, but how do I face him without feeling so pathetic?

 

"Do you want some water?" He asks again, he tries prying my fingers away from his arm but I don't budge. He says nothing about my stubbornness and pats my back awkwardly, "Ok, ok, no water."

 

"How," I clear my dry throat, "How'd you know I was havin' a panic attack? I've never had one of those before."

 

"My cousin used to get them all the time. Usually there were other people who helped him when it happened – I could only watch … But this one time we were alone and I had to be the one to calm him. Scared the shit out of me."

 

I breathe, "I'm sorry if I scared you."

 

His body goes hard, "No, no, that's not what I'm saying! It's just, I can't imagine what you must've been feeling."

 

Jean leans back and looks at me. I don't know what he's thinking but embarrassment washes over me when something like _pity_ crosses his eyes. They're not fierce anymore, or playful or angry. I must've looked really bad for him to look at me that way.

 

I wipe my eyes to make sure there's nothing left, my skin around them burns, "It's alright. It's over now."

 

He squints, "N-No it's not. Marco, something scared you. Listen, you don't have to keep pretending you're OK."

 

"What are you talkin' about?"

 

"It's just—the way you are … You don't have to be so—"

 

"So what? I'm not anything. Just me. You haven't known me long enough to know how I really am."

 

I knew it. He really does know about me.

 

Jean looks away, I think there's shame in his expression, "Your friends are worried about you."

 

"Why would they be worried?" I release him and drag myself back a little, "And how do you know? You've only just met them today."

 

"No, I've been here for almost a month now. I saw Krista the first week I got here and I've been hanging out with some of them this whole time. You're always working on a car? She told me you're never around because you're entering some race?"

 

I feel my ribs trembling with cold. I remember the day he'd popped out of nowhere. We'd been near Bertholdt's neighborhood, "You're lyin'. They didn't tell you about the race."

 

"Why would I lie?"

 

"Then why didn't you know they were all—why are they acting like they don't know you?"

 

Jean sighed, "Well, I mean, it's not like I'm supposed to know _everything_ about them. And … and they didn't think you'd be interested to know if I was friends with them anyways. But that's not even the point I'm trying to make."

 

My panic is gone and something else is taking over. It's been so long since the numbness hadn't cushioned me, I don't know how to control the poison leaking into my tone, "What're you getting at, Jean?"

 

He notices my anger and that spark is back, "You know exactly what I'm getting at. Talk to someone, _anyone_! You've got lots of people who care about you and they're worried. Why won't you talk about what happened to your fath—"

 

"Don't!" I get up to my feet and ball my hands up, I think he thinks we're going to fight because he copies my posture. Only, he could probably really kill me if he wanted to, "Don't say it!"

 

"I haven't said anything yet! But that's my point! You walk around like if you're living in some dream world, Marco. I thought you were just bizarre at first, but that look of yours … it's like you're not here," His face twists with discomfort, "All I'm saying is, if you become more honest with yourself, you'll be closer to getting better. I've … never mind. Just, be more honest and it'll help.”

 

My eyes glare in his direction and it stuns him, "And what about you then? Don't talk to me about being honest when you're not so honest with yourself either."

 

"What are you talking about? I _am_ honest."

 

I laugh, but it's cold and it makes him flinch, "Right, and your cousin's male friend isn't his boyfriend – his _husband_. You've accepted your cousin, but you don't want to think he's really with a man. You said you aren't a homophobe, Jean, but you're not proud of your own family."

 

"Fine!" Jean throws his arms up in the air, "Fine! They're together! I know they're a thing! I'm not an idiot, I hear shit at night! There, happy now? Now it's your turn."

 

"No, that's not all."

 

He runs a hand through his hair and I think he looks worried, "Alright, what else you got for me?"

 

My mind is screaming at me not to say it, because it isn't my place to do so even though he's doing that exact same thing to me. But my own crippling fear is looking for an escape and I don't know how to gain control anymore.

 

I take a step closer to him and he freezes. I want to make sure he's looking directly at me and nothing else because I'm going to ruin what we have. Whatever that was.

 

I don't think I'll ever see him again, "Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at me, Jean. You don't have to say anything for me to know because I've been lookin' at you, too."

 

I take another noiseless step and kiss him soft on his lips. His eyes go wide at first, but then slowly, slowly, they close and mine close with him. 

 

"Hey, hey, hey, who's doing all that yelling?"

 

Reiner's voice doesn't make us jump. When I step back Jean's face is pink, but he's not angry. He's afraid. He's ashamed.

 

"What are y'all doing down there?"

 

My pulse quickens when he tells someone upstairs that he's heading down. I leave Jean paralyzed where he stands and bolt to the back door like the sorry child that I am. He doesn't chase me or tell me to stop and face my demons. Not when I just threw one at his face.

 

Outside I can smell the meat they've been grilling. My friends, unaware of what's been happening in the basement, are just above me on the deck, laughing and enjoying a day that I wish had never been mine. As I run down to the front yard and onto the street I start wondering how much they'll hate me when Reiner tells them that I've escaped.

 

I run and run and run and I don't look back.

 

~~

 

The derby car I've been working on for the past few weeks was supposed to be four-wheeled. It was hard finding the same shapes with similar widths, but thanks to Marlowe's junkyard – well, his fathers – I had more than enough options to take from. Three were from different bicycles. Two had belonged to a girls', but the pink and white decoration didn't bother me, it was designed like ocean waves and made a pretty picture when spun. The third was from one of those racing bikes where people wear really tight clothes, the front had been popped but the back was in perfect condition so I'd taken that one.

 

I hadn't had time to search for a fourth.

 

The body of my car had been more of a challenge. There'd been nowhere where I could find free wood to get started on the foundation. And junkyards are typically wood-free since they can often be recycled, but it hadn't stopped me from snooping around while Marlowe's dad eyed me real funny from the office. The toe curling, hair burning, eye tearing stench of my adventure had not been in vain. I'd found a pile of planed softwood deep in the whirl pool of old telephone cords and vacuums.

 

“M-Marco?”

 

It'd splintered my fingers when I'd tried stapling the broken pieces together. But I'd been happy I'd had my frame as a start. Reiner's thirty year old brother had let me use old bolts and nails he was about to throw out so I could put it all together. They'd all been splotched with thick white paint and I'd stayed up late one night in the garage wiping it away with nail polish removal and an old rag.

 

As for the steering wheel, since I'd given up on a nice one, I'd gone to Connie to see if he still had those video game controllers. He'd used one for the derby car he and Reiner were making for fun. Another was lost and the third had been broken to bits when his dog decided it was a chew toy. When I asked him about the fourth, he'd said it didn't exist. He'd only ever had three.

 

I'd thought about looking for the stolen steering wheel that day, but remembering Jean … I went back to the junkyard and came home smelling like sour feet rubbed in rotten milk. Empty handed.

 

“Marco, wh-what're you doin' with that?”

 

The only time I had spent money on my car was for the plywood I had to have for the body. The folks down at the lumber factory hadn't been very kind when I asked if they had free scraps they didn't want, but an ancient man had directed me to the nearest store where I could find what I was looking for. He'd been gentle in his speech and was different looking from the others, but he still kind of scared me for some reason.

 

Hanji was the one who'd given me extra money to buy the wood. He'd grown tired of me coming home smelling like waste after he worked so hard spraying our apartment with air freshener. He did it to distract visitors from the mess, but honestly, he wasn't fooling anybody. I'd tried refusing the money at first, but he kept on begging me, and I can't say no to Uncle Hanji.

 

That's about as far as I got with what I wanted. And like many things in my life, it will never be completed thanks to the powerlessness of my own being.

 

I look at the brown car down at my feet surrounded by dirt. It's dark out, but the light from the junkyard's office is bright enough for us to see the mountain of metal and rust far beyond, casting shadows of human silhouettes watching me, waiting for me to get rid of the ache in my chest threatening to break my ribs.

 

I swing the bat over my head and Marlowe moans with uncertainty from behind. He's a good kid, he follows the rules. It was unfortunate that he found me running away from my own birthday party an hour after my panic attack, because I'd made him drive me to Reiner's house to pick up this mistake and drive all the way here to his father's empty work place.

 

“What're you—!”

 

The bat collides with my effort and it doesn't break the way I want it to. I thought it would've shredded into nothing but dust with the first whack, but it didn't. It was putting up a fight.

 

“Marco, snap out it! O-Or I'll call someone!”

 

I bring it down again with more force than before, making the car cry as a large snap fills the air. The steering wheel I'd had to settle for was from our front door neighbor and now it was split in two. She likes making projects out of trash, using old magazines, scrap metal, itchy blankets to turn them into something different. Here, she'd turned a bunch of bottle tops into a large, flat circle with super glue making it stick together.

 

I think it was supposed to be ceiling decoration, like those lanterns you hang, but she'd given up on that idea and had handed it to me when Hanji told her my problem. When I first saw the Nestle caps, I'd wanted to throw up. God, I want to throw up.

 

“Give me a speech,” I tell Marlowe, I'm surprised by how calm my voice sounds after all that burning I'd inhaled on my run and how my arms felt like mash and how my hands will not stop trembling.

 

He doesn't answer, and when I turn around, I find that he's gone. The lights from within the office are bright, so I can see his shadow moving around in there, pacing with an object I presume is a phone on one of his ears. Yeah. He really is a good guy.

 

I turn back to my work and stare at the scraps. My arms are already growing heavy after just two swings, but I bring them back up again and they fall. Fall. Breathe. Rise. Fall. Breathe. Rise. Breathe. Breathe. Fall. Don't think, don't think. Fall. Breath. Rise. Mom, dad. The unknown. Me.

 

_Wham!!_

 

The body is broken. I never even got to pick a color to paint it. I've never talked to Hanji. I'll never know my sister.

 

_Whop!!_

 

The bat bounces off one wheel. I don't dare hurt the pink ones, my hands remember working on her.

 

With a cry ripping through my throat, I whirl the bat down and the entire thing breaks. The bottle tops scatter all around – on top of moldy plywood, cardboard, rubber and silver. It's the scene of an accident, two cars colliding with one another and leaving the weakest of the two completely destroyed.

 

Only, it hadn't been an accident. The whole thing was on purpose! And it wasn't two cars, one was a _man_. Just what in the hell did I think I was doing, entering some race for my … for someone who loved me but not enough to think I was worth staying here for? I'd wanted to make him proud, but I was only digging myself in a hole with no end in sight.

 

“He's coming!” I hear Marlowe shout from behind.

 

I don't know who he means, but his words strike a cold cord in my memory.

 

_”Hey, I'm back!”_

 

He never did come back.

 

Was it really so wrong of me to want more from him? I _had_ had a roof over my head, I _had_ had food to eat everyday, I _had_ had clothes on my back, shoes on my feet, sweaters in the cold. I hadn't been missing a single thing with him. He took care of me, he made sure I did my homework and showered and flossed sometimes.

 

I had had _a_ parent, but why didn't it ever feel like it was enough? Why did _he_ feel like I wasn't good enough? Did God think me too selfish and took the last of my family because I wanted more? Was I being punished for the days I hated him when he wouldn't look at me or talk to me or hide inside his office?

 

“Well, guess what?” I shout to the dark sky above, throwing the bat off to the side, “I don't want anything anymore!”

 

I feel my chin quivering and it hurts by how much I'm trying to force it to make it stop. The knocking had broken my insides and now all of my emotions are too much, I can feel them too strongly and it's _too damn much_.

 

“Or maybe,” I hiccup, “Or maybe just, just keep my Uncle safe. But other than that, I don't want anything! I'm too damn scared to want more than I already have, so here, take this!”

 

I scamper to the floor, thinking I'll grab handfuls of what I'd destroyed and hurl it up to wherever my parents were. But I was still wearing a yellow apron and I trip on it as I bend down. My face hit the dirt and I slide an inch or two before my hands know how to catch me.

 

“Marco!”

 

“Take it! Take it! Take it!” My cheek stings and my hair tries jumping in my mouth to get me to shut up, “Take all of it. Take all of it and give them back, please, just give them all back!”

 

I've been in my own fantasy for over a year now. And all it took to bring me out of it were footsteps sounding like my neighbor trying to tell me what'd he'd seen on his way back home. He'd been walking at a hearty distance behind my father, witnessing how it had all been a single man's fault. I was told that he'd ran all the way to our house, thinking it was a good idea to tell the son that his father had just killed himself.

 

But I'd known that before he'd found his way to our backyard door and forced himself in. I'd known my father had been missing since the day I'd found the pictures of my baby sister and mother. He'd lied to me all my life that I'd always been the only child and that he'd only had two pictures of my Mom to show me. He never left a note to apologize. I'll never have my closure.

 

My tears are hot and my voice is hoarse from all the yelling I'd done. The muscles I rarely use feel like they're on fire as I stay rooted to the dirt, staring at the metal of one of the wheels. It's dented and not broken, just like how I thought I used to be. Now, though, I feel like shattered glass and all I see in the strip of silver is my face – lost and afraid in the reflection.

 

And someone else. I can see Hanji in his khaki pants and yellow button up shirt running to me. His red hair, messy as always, stops flopping when he reaches my limp body. He doesn't scold me or ask me what's happened. I think we both know. I think he's been waiting for me to break down on my own time.

 

He tucks his hands under my armpits and scoops me up effortlessly. Has he always been that strong? I've always seen him as a tall and lanky man, nose buried in books or projects before they remembered they were attached to a human who needed food to eat and water to drink. Hanji is loud, Hanji is the smartest person I know. Hanji's the only person alive who knows what I looked like when I was a baby.

 

“Marco,” His voice cracks at the 'o' in my name. He holds me tight on my shoulders, getting his knees dirty as he sits with me. We stare at one another to silently speak, and I instantly know he can't ask me if I'm alright – we both know I haven't been alright for a very long time now. But there is relief in his eyes that finally, finally, finally, I can meet him in his aged grieving, “Let's go home.”

 

I feel my eyes prickle again and wait for him to finish wiping the dirt off my skin before we stand up.

 

“Hanji, it hurts—I'm really—”

 

“Not now, Marco,” He hushes me, afraid that if I talk now then maybe I'll have nothing to say once we're at our apartment. He knows me the best. I hush my whimpers as he leads us to the office wall, seating me on a torn and abandoned couch next to a jittery Marlowe. I don't know why I feel so cold in the summer air.

 

“Thank you for callin' me, it was the right thing to do,” He says to Marlowe, then turns to me, “I left the car down the road and ran the rest of the way up here. Wait for me to bring it up, stay put, alright?”

 

“Alright,” I agree. I feel like a five year old who's ran away from home and ended up at the park only to be found with scrapes and homesick tears. Hanji loves me, and as we watch him jogging away in his funny and stiff way, I ungratefully realize just how much.

 

“ _If you are aware of a state of which you call is, or reality, or life, this implies another state called isn't. Or illusion, or unreality, or nothingness, or death. You can't know one without the other_.”

 

“Marlowe?” I ask, confused at first. He gives me a self-conscious, apologetic smile and then I remember of my request and let him continue.

 

“ _And so as to make life poignant, it's always gonna come to an end. That is exactly – don't you see – what makes it lively. Liveliness is change, it's motion. So you see, you're always at the place where you always are. And you think, wowee! Little further on we'll get there!_ ”

 

We hear an engine.

 

“ _I hope we don't go further down so that we loose what we already have, but that is built into every creatures situation … When you go up a bit, you gain. When you go down a bit, you feel disappointed, gloomy, lost. You can go all the way down to death. Somehow there seems to be a difficulty getting all the way up._ ”

 

We hear tires getting closer, but we don't say bye yet.

 

“ _Death seems so final_ ,” Marlowe stares at me while he says this. I know his Mom died two years ago in a hiking accident. That's when he'd started reciting, “ _Nothingness seems so very, very irrevocable and permanent. But then if it is, what about the nothingness that was before you started? On the contrary, it takes nothing to have something. 'Cause you wouldn't know what something was without nothing. The most real state is the state of nothingness. This is what it's all gonna come to_.”

 

Hanji honks for me. I can see the headlights through the gated fence illuminating Marlowe's white truck. It shines on us bright like day but delicate like its shadowed shine, giving me hope and a need I haven't felt in years. I want to pop, I want to cry and I want to talk my lips off even if the pain becomes unbearable.

 

“It gets better,” Marlowe tells me as I stand up, “It still hurts every single day, but you hafta believe me when I say it gets better.”

 

My heart aches as I watch how desperate he wants me to know that, “Thank you, Marlowe. Don't ever stop bein' yourself. You're a great guy, you hear?”

 

He nods his head and gets up, too. We say our farewell's and walk our separate ways. Me, to the light of my Uncle and him to the light of his father. I'm terrified, but I think I'm ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not usually this quiet. Usually I write in summaries and always have an end note that's more than a link to a song I used to write. But I've been feeling so down and depressed ever since election night. Today, though, I'm feeling a little better thanks to my family and even though there are a little bit of views, I'm thankful for those of you who're silently reading.
> 
> Marco Bodtom Week is coming to an end and I know this sad fic isn't exactly what people want to read, but I wanted to challenge myself! I really had fun writing this. Just one more chapter left :)
> 
> [Introduction; Nothingness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wD68PZ0AR5o)
> 
>  
> 
> [For](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWcahl_k_EQ)


	8. Sweet Things and Galaxies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, after a hundred years I update, my apologies!

My talk with Hanji lasted two days. He's a teacher and is getting paid even during the summer – I'm still a student and have no part-time job, so we had nowhere to go and had no excuses to use to avoid one another and the grueling conversation I'd been deaf to.

 

At first, he'd been careful around me when we got home the night of the junkyard incident. It was like if he thought I'd crumble into dust if he as so much made any sort of movement.

 

In silence, he'd made himself a cup of coffee and for me he'd boiled some regular water since coffee keeps me up at night and we'd run out of tea. I don't know what it is about hot drinks and cold feelings that work so well, but it calmed me despite our apartment feeling stuffier than outside and how uncomfortable it made my skin feel against my clothes.

 

I don't know how long we sat at our table, hands around our mugs while we waited for the other to start. My lips had been glued shut despite the way I'd felt minutes ago, I'd been mortified by the way Hanji had seen me – so ashamed about breaking myself apart and revealing how I'd really been feeling every single day.

 

Uncle Hanji had deserved something easier, but emotions rarely ever are.

 

I'd never told him how much I despised and adored and _blamed_ my father for the unbearable desert he'd created inside of me. And he never knew how much I wanted to be with him at the same time, just as much as he had wanted to by with my mother. Even when he was alive, I still wanted to be with him but never got the chance to. I think that's why the bad days came in bunches after he was gone.

 

They would drag on for whole days, weeks or even months. Sometimes they'd consume me for no reason, sometimes it'd be because I'd heard things I wish I hadn't.

 

But Hanji had figured it out when he saw my face and heard my cries that night. I'd felt so raw and new then, I still do, but at the junk yard – it'd been the first I'd felt anything like it. It was like a dam had burst inside of me, a dam that'd been receiving crack after crack whenever I pretended I didn't know something. My heart had taken so many beatings, Jean had finally given it the last blow.

 

I'd wondered briefly, while Hanji had patiently waited for me to speak, if this was how babies felt when they were brought into our world. Agony. Confusion. Fear. It's a horrible feeling not knowing anything about anything and not knowing if you're going to survive knowing nothing about nothing. But then when I'd looked up to see the funny man with red hair looking at me with concern and love, I remembered that I'm not the only one who feels that way.

 

Uncle Hanji quit squirming when I'd placed my hands on my lap and inhaled. A flash of my father the day I'd been able to live with him again had crossed my head before I'd started. I don't remember how old I'd been, but that day had marked one of the few times I'd seen him truly happy. He'd had his son back, but maybe that little victory had urged him to think he could get two others in return, too.

 

"I guess I'll start in the beginnin'."

 

I'd told him about life with dad. I'd told him all the good things first, because that was easier, like how I never starved for breakfast, lunch or dinner. How we would make derby cars in our backyard every year and we'd ride them in an abandoned warehouse because I was always too young to join the race and dad never really had an interest in it, and how I was allowed to stay passed curfew on weekends.

 

But the good list had ended far too quickly. For the next hour or so I'd told him about the not-so-good.

 

He had quietly listened while the truth in my puking words turned our drinks cold. What'd came out were realities that I'd kept hidden deep in the safety of my mind. They were excuses I'd kept for dad all these years, and I'd never fully realized that's what they were until now. And I know it'd surprised him, too, because he never once stopped me or told me there was no way I could remember all these things because I'd been too young.

 

I was left alone more than any child should have been while growing up. While my father secretly and slowly tried drinking himself away in the locked room even past the afternoon hour, I would be in the kitchen. I never starved for breakfast, lunch or dinner because I had to make my own meals whether he was home or not.

 

If there was only mold bread, I'd cut the danger out and dip the rest in warm milk. No milk or expired milk? No problem, hot water worked just as good. I'd eat loose ramen packs drizzled in ranch for lunch, mashed potatoes with frozen fries for dinner. I had boiled chicken for myself once and ended up having to get my stomach pumped.

 

Everyday in the kitchen had been a lab experiment for me, I had liked it, I'd thought it was fun and grown up of me. And dad had even eaten my creations some days – they were rare – but he'd indulged me with asking for more and watching me cook. That's why I can't really do it anymore.

 

And as I grew, I'd made it known with whines and cries that my shirts itched or that my pants didn't fit any longer. I'd always thought he'd cared, because he'd tell me we would go shopping this weekend. But this weekend would turn into next weekend, and next weekend would turn into next month.

 

There was this one changed that I had begged for with tears and wails for so long that he'd grown tired of hearing it everyday. So tired that he'd felt it appropriate to slap me across the face to shut me up. I'd smelled the alcohol in his swing, the pain in my chest from his actions had won against the sting on my skin or the names some of the kids at school had called me.

 

After that I made myself love my hair, I took care of it and never again asked to get it cut. The beatings he gave me decreased the older I got, the more _obedient_ I got. But the man who hit me was never Dad, I'd made him and the other two different people because if I didn't . . . I don't know. I don't think I want to know what would've happened to me if I'd told myself my only blood relative alive hated me and would trade me without even blinking an eye.

 

"I was workin' on the derby car for him," I'd said, changing the subject because Uncle Hanji had been taking on a furious face, "I did it for him to make him proud. He never once said he was proud of me and-and that's all a boy wants to hear from his father. This was supposed to be our year, he'd promised me that, but . . . but it didn't happen."

 

Several times during our – no – _my_ talk, he'd look like he wanted to say something. I knew why the skin on his face had reddened and why his hands had shook, but he'd kept quiet and let my sniffling continue until it'd found its miserable end. I'd been embarrassed again for crying, but he had cried with me. A family friend, a supposed Uncle. He was more to me than my father ever was.

 

The second day of our talk, it had been his turn to say what he needed. They hadn't been excuses for my father or quotes from the parenting books he kept underneath his bed that he thought I didn't know about. They'd been apologies first – for never noticing something was wrong when he came to visit.

 

He'd said he thought my father was grieving properly, he'd thought I was thin because that's just how Mom naturally was as well. He didn't think my smelly clothes were from the dirty basket or damp washing machine, he'd thought it was because I played outside like all the other kids.

 

But that was just it. I thought I'd been fine, too, because I _had_ played with my friends most days during summer when he was drunk in his office, making my clothes reek even more., and I _am_ naturally skinny like Mom. To me, that's what normal had been.

 

Neither of us knew what to call it, because it wasn't a misunderstanding. You have to poorly speak to one another about what goes on to have a misunderstanding. It's just one of those horrible things that happen to people for no reason whatsoever. You could blame the universe, and that's alright if it makes you feel better. You could blame a disease, an accident, a bad person. But never yourself. When life deals you a bad card, never blame yourself because it'll never be your fault.

 

My Uncle blamed dad.

 

"He was in the wrong, _he_ was in the wrong. I'm an idiot, too, Marco, an idiot for being so blind even with these thick, useless glasses," Uncle Hanji's voice had cracked after every other word, "Your father died the day . . . the day they did. And I should've—I should've seen it. I should've never allowed him to take you away from me. If I'd known—if I'd known, oh god, your mom. If _she'd_ known."

 

I don't remember her, so he'd left me guessing with the thought of: what _would_ she have done if she'd known? Had she been the strong kind, the kind that would've pummeled my father for his neglect and abuse? Or had she been the silent type, the kind that wouldn't have done a single thing in fear her husband would leave? And the answer is, I'll never know.

 

Unless, of course, I ask. About her. But right now, even thought its only been a week since my breakdown, I'm still mending. When my new skin comes in I know I'll be able to ask him all sorts of questions about her and my little sister. And maybe even about how dad was before everything happened.

 

But the most I'm able to do right now is make amends with the living. I've avoided my friends in the same fashion cats avoid the caress of their owners. They'd called me so many times, we had to unplug the phone for an entire day. And it was yesterday when Sasha and Connie came ringing like mad on our doorbell.

 

We really hadn't been home that time though, me and Hanji had come from the grocery store when our neighbor had told us they'd stuck around for hours outside. Hanji had given me a look then, one that old me I better hurry up and make a choice about what I wanted to do with them before the world decided for me.

 

It didn't take long for me to decide.

 

"Can I go to Reiner's?"

 

It's nine in the morning and he's sitting at the dining room table with his glasses fogged up with steam from his coffee. Without looking at me, he knows what I'm going to do already.

 

"Be home for lunch, I have a surprise for you."

 

"What is it?"

 

He smiles, "A surprise."

 

I don't know what he means but I smile back, body already half way out the door when I say, "Okay, I'll be back soon."

 

~~~

 

"Connie – no, look at how it looks. It's a disaster!"

 

"What'd you think it'd look like? Cotton balls and glue aren't exactly the best combinations, alright?"

 

"I know, but you're makin' the balls . . . unball themselves! They're getting stuck to your skin, see?"

 

Reiner is in a mood. A real bad one. His voice sounds like low rumbling before a storm and I'm not even anywhere near the garage yet. He only ever gets that way for three reasons – one: he's hungry as all hell. Two: he's hot as all hell. And three: he's worried.

 

The ride on the bus had been a normal one, I'd never once felt nervous about making an appearance, but now that I'm getting closer to them I can feel my heart fluttering. Not from fear or rejection, but pure guilt. I'd done something awful to them, the worst thing you can do to your best friends is not trust in how much they really care about you. And I'd treated them like strangers.

 

I wouldn't be surprised if Reiner found the strength of a thousand men to unlatch the ax from his front yard to chop me into a million pieces. I kind of, maybe, would have welcomed it when I had to walk across Jean's house. I'd held my breath the entire way like you're supposed to do in front of cemeteries, but luckily there'd been no Lexus parked on the driveway or a boy waiting for me on the porch.

 

Not that I should've expected to find him there, anyway. Not after what I'd done to him. And yet something inside of me had twitched at finding the place empty, giving me weird feeling like if something was terribly missing.

 

"I don't know why you're gettin' so crabby with me, it looks fine with the cotton feathered out like that."

 

"Feather—feathered out, is that what you're callin' it?"

 

"Well, I ain't no fashionista, I don't know _what_ to call it."

 

"This isn't for a runway show, you're not designing a stinkin' dress, it just has to look—not cheap!"

 

My legs almost stop walking when I hear their voices rise.

 

"Oh, so now I'm the cheap one?" Connie shouts back, "That's fresh comin' from the guy who bought cardboard for the body! If it wasn't for you being so cheap, we wouldn't have to cover the dang thing up!"

 

"And what'd you buy, huh? Everything you got, you got from your house. I bet these cotton balls are from your ma's nail polish basket!"

 

"So what if it is? She's got about a million of 'em lying around the house, it's called being smart, Reiner, you should try it out sometime."

 

"Why you tiny, little—Marco."

 

" _Ha?_ "

 

Connie, lost and confused, stares at his line of sight where I'm awkwardly standing in the middle of the garage entrance. Their eyes go big and shiny, just like their mouths. It feels more like they're staring at a ghost rather than me, but then again, there probably isn't much of a difference between those two. But hopefully some day I'll be able to change that.

 

"What-What're you doin' here?" Reiner asks, not even trying to hide his shock, "Thought you were still, uh, grieving."

 

I wish I could've had my hair down today, that way I could've played with it while I talked. I don't know why it catches me off guard that they'd tell me so honestly what I'd been up to. I know Jean would've told them everything that'd happened down at Historia's basement, but still. I wonder if he told them everything.

 

Connie speaks before I can mumble an answer, "”Course he's still grieving, haven't you ever lost anyone before? But, Marco, why _are_ you here? I mean, it's nothin' against you, it's just—we thought you still needed time."

 

"I do," I blurt, I feel so strange, like if my brain isn't in the right body anymore, "I'm still not one-hundred percent okay, but-but I owe you guys – everyone – an apology for what I did. Y'all worked hard for my birthday and I wasn't there to enjoy it. I ran . . . I ran away."

 

Reiner blinks at me, still frozen where he's sitting on his knees while Connie stands up. He's shorter than me but I cower.

 

"Don't be stupid," He says, "C'mon, you know you don't have to apologize, right? Marco, you don't got nothing to be sorry about, man. I mean, we understand, you know?"

 

"Nobody's mad at you," Reiner adds, "In fact, I can call everyone right now and they'd all be happy to know you're alright."

 

The old me would have silently nodded, held my tongue and done what I'm told to do. But that me is learning how to take a seat and keep their hands on their lap. With my feet standing as firmly as possible on the ground, I straighten up and declare, "No, you guys have to let me apologize. You _have_ to."

 

They stare at one another, finally catching my drift that it's not just for last week. It's for misjudging them, for thinking they couldn't make me feel better when they were my chosen family. It's for being dry in my words and uninterested in what they had to say half the time I was in my own, deserted world. And if they didn't let give an apology, I'd do it anyways.

 

"Alright, we'll hear you out," Reiner agrees to my determination with something lurking in the shadow of his eyes, "but before you do, you have to do something for us."

 

“Rei,” Connie crosses his arms, “Are you thinkin' what I think you're thinkin' of doing?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He shakes his head but goes back to sit next to him, their car in between the two.

 

"What is it?” I ask “What do you want me to do?"

 

"No, first you have to promise you'll do it."

 

They know how I feel about promises, and I know they aren't using that kinda information against me to hurt me. But I'm still reluctant when I agree because I can't be fixed in one week, "Is it serious?"

 

Connie stares at Reiner, unsure as ever, but Reiner ignores him and gives me a sharp nod, "Our friendship is at stake here if you don't do it."

 

"Rei, don't you think that's a _itty-bitty_ too much?" Connie says through his teeth.

 

"No, I think it's perfectly fair. What do ya say, Marco? You in or out?"

 

I see how much I've hurt them through their worried eyes. Neither of them are sure of what their asking for, I can see that, too, but for some reason – whatever they want me to agree to – it must be worth the chance to risk all the years we've had together. I know they have the best intentions for me and I trust them.

 

"Okay, I-I promise I'll do it. What do you guys want me to do?"

 

"You have to join the derby race."

 

I stay silent for a while, thinking I heard wrong, but when they don't say anything I realize I'd heard them exactly right, "But I don't have a car anymore."

 

"We know," Reiner grins, relaxing, "Marlowe told us in his own words what you did to yours and, as your senior by ten months, I applaud you."

 

"D-Did he tell you anythin' else?"

 

"Mm, not really, but we can take a wild guess—"

 

"Which is why we need you to join the race again," Connie continues, "We know why you were joinin' it, Marco, you used to ditch us every summer for your . . . and now that you're allowed to beat all these sorry suckers, you decide to throw it all away? We can't let you do that, it ain't fair to _you_."

 

"You'll take our car," Reiner pats the car's behind, and it gives out an empty sort of sound, "She don't look like much, but she's stable. We tested her out a few times already, but I'm afraid she'll go bald now that we've added all this cotton."

 

"She's fine the way she is, Reiner, she's got hot glue for fucks sake."

 

"Not everywhere, there are parts that are 'feathered' like you stupidly said, or do you not remember?"

 

"So what if some of it flies off? We'll be lucky if it gets in the eyes of the other racers! That way our chances of winning are better."

 

"That's . . . ! True, that's actually very true, good thinkin'."

 

Connie rolls his eyes at him before locking them on mine, he wasn't as convinced I'd go through with it, maybe not even sure I should, "So, you really gonna do it, Marco?"

 

I gaze at their car and swallow. The only reason why I have issues with promises is because they're tightly entangled with lies and with my father.

 

And then I realize he's always going to be in everything I think about. _Everything_ , and always like the fog.

 

I shake my head and focus on the car.

 

It's really ugly. You can tell from a mile away that it's made out of the kind of cardboard you use for school projects, but I can see cheap wood for the frame poking out in random places where the cotton hadn't invaded yet. At least it's a little safe. There's only three wheels – one in the front and two in the back – and I can't help thinking it looks like a mutated chicken.

 

The chair for me to sit on is tiny, blue and plastic with a pillow of Marilyn Monroe's famous face on it for cushion. I don't ask if they stole it from an elementary school because I already know the horrible answer. The steering wheel is one of Connie's old video game consoles, it has silver sharpie decorating it with dirty words and pictures from when we were dumb in middle school.

 

Yeah. It's ugly and tacky and illegal.

 

"I'm in."

 

"For-for real?”

 

“For real.”

 

“Fuck yeah!" Connie beams, standing up once again to slap my arm with happiness.

 

Reiner stands too, but he doesn't touch me. He's the most emotional one of all of us, "Consider yourself officially forgiven."

 

~~~

 

Hanji welcomes me home later that day with the intentions of giving me a heart attack. He and his three college friends were hiding in the corners of our apartment when I came in, yelling at me with every ounce of their breath once I'd shut the door behind me and started asking why the curtains were drawn.

 

"Happy birthday, Marco!!!"

 

They'd yelled it so loud, I'd gone blind and deaf for five seconds. I wish I _had_ gone blind. Uncle Hanji's friends scare me despite all of them being so different. One is tall, painfully handsome with confidence that could be tangible. His blue eyes always seem to know what I'm thinking, that's why I used to like avoiding him when Hanji brought them around.

 

The other is his exact physical opposite. He's short, indifferent and with pitch black hair and pitch black irises. He's not very verbal, but when he is, it's either because he wants to say an insult to you or tell a very bad joke that the others are going to laugh at just so they won't end up six feet underground. Probably.

 

Then there's Mike. He's not that scary, but he's even taller than Erwin and that's enough for me – someone with zero self-esteem – to feel intimidated by him. I wouldn't be so weirded out by him if he didn't sniff me so much, too, but he's a science teacher so maybe there's something I'm missing here.

 

So. What do I do when I see this group of grown men – with the exception of Levi – give me an ear-splitting belated birthday surprise? I laugh. I laugh so much I think I catch blush on their bewildered faces before my tears spill. And for a fleeting moment, I wonder what threat my Uncle had used to get them all together since they were always so busy.

 

"We told you this wasn't a good idea."

 

Uncle Hanji ignores Erwin, thinking he broke me and runs to me, "Was it too much? I told them not to do it so loud!"

 

"You were the loudest one." Mike points out, flickering on a light.

 

"Well, what kind of uncle would I be if I let you all show me up? But Marco," Hanji turned back to me and placed both hands against my cheeks, "Are you alright?"

 

"I'm fine."

 

"Positive?"

 

"Yes."

 

"You're not lying to me, are you?"

 

"N-No, I'm not."

 

"You stuttered! I don't believe you."

 

"That's because you're a smothering, psycho four-eyes who doesn't know when to stop. If he says he's fine, then he's fine." Levi snaps.

 

Hanji looks back at them and I get the feeling I've been one of their many topics before.

 

"I really am okay, I just got a little spooked is all."

 

"Normal people scream." Levi finishes, disappearing into our kitchen.

 

Erwin watches him go before saying what he wants, "It was his face that scared you, wasn't it? We told your Uncle he was going to give you a fright even if he didn't shout anything out, but you know him better than us. He never listens."

 

"Alright, so maybe hidin' Levi in the corner where it's darkest while he's in his black outfit – despite it being ninety-nine degrees outside – wasn't the best idea, but can you blame me for trying?"

 

"Yes," Mike grunted with laugh, "Fully."

 

They stayed for cake. Erwin and Levi have their own pastry shop not too far from Miss Petra's restaurant, so when I saw the white, delicately frosted cake appear from within the kitchen with eighteen candles the shape of periwinkle flowers, I knew they'd made it . . . And I'd tried not to look at the flames casting shadows underneath Levi's face when he set it down on the table just in case my fear showed.

 

I was never really close to Hanji's friends, I only ever saw them during special days like Christmas and New Years and sometimes even Valentine's day when they all went out on triple dates even though the only real couples there were always Levi and Erwin. But I was grateful that they came and I never once had to ask why.

 

I knew Hanji wasn't going to let me keep the day of my breakdown as my only birthday memory, even if a week had passed already since I've been eighteen. I knew he was going to do something for me eventually because he loves me and cares about me. Now that I know there's a sun behind the clouds in my head, it's easier to see people's intentions.

 

And I think that's why my heart sinks down to my stomach when I think about Jean. Ever since the day we ate together at Miss Petra's place, I've known about his intentions with _me_. But I always thought there might've been ulterior motives behind his longing stares, and it was only after our walk to my bus stop that I'd realized there wasn't. And that's what scared me the most.

 

I'd ruined Jean a week ago and the hate he feels for me is in the rightfully placed, that's why I'm glad – and I hate to say it – but I'm glad I'm never going to see him again.

 

~~~

 

"I look like I'm tryna cosplay Jesus Christ."

 

Historia giggles, brushing my hair down while I stare at myself in front of the mirror. It makes me uncomfortable to stare into my own eyes, and it's worse right now because we're not in a bathroom with privacy or anything of the sort. We're in a fun house, the kind that has the wobbly mirrors that distort all your bones.

 

Someone had rented all sorts of fair-like goodies for the Fourth of July. Not only do we have a fun house – we also have a Ferris wheel, carousel, devil's wheel, fun slide, kiddie train, reverse bungee and a swing ride everyone keeps calling Tornado. I went on that one twice already, but not in my Jesus – I mean angel costume.

 

"Why do I have to wear this again?"

 

"Because," Historia has skinny legs with a balloon torso in the mirror, "It's to fit the theme of your car, silly. Everyone _always_ dresses up for these things, and since Connie and Rei tried covering the cardboard with cotton balls instead of paint like any sane person would, they accidentally created a cloud."

 

"And I'm the angel?"

 

"Exactly!"

 

A couple of kids zip by us, laughing without ever once noticing there were other people in here as they disappear around a cramped corner. Earlier, other teenagers had come by and looked at us real funny before scurrying off. We would've gone to an actual restroom if it meant it wouldn't be port-a-potty—which they all were—and we're so disorganized that we somehow ended up meeting here.

 

“Hey, Marco? Can I tell you somethin'?”

 

“Yes.”

 

"You know I'm . . . I'm really proud of you," Historia starts, turning me around with impressive strength. Her big eyes are full, but she doesn't look at me when she speaks, instead she reaches down to get the fake wings from the floor next to her book bag.

 

I spread my arms and let her slip the thing on, waiting for her to elaborate, but she doesn't, "Proud of me for what?"

 

She sighs and I can tell she's thinking. When I apologized to the rest of my friends some days ago, she'd been the only one to cry. I don't know why she'd done it, I don't feel like I should ask, either, but she looks like she's going to pop with whatever she's keeping inside her small body.

 

"For standing up to yourself. Oh, that sounds funny, but I mean it. You versus the world is different from you versus _yourself_ , and you did it. I can't even stand up to my parents and tell them about Ymir . . . but that's not where I want to go with this. I have something – er – someone else in mind that I want to talk to you about."

 

The normal clothes under my robe starts feeling sticky, "Okay, who is it?"

 

She bites her lip, still unable to meet me in the eye, "You're one of my many closest friends, Marco, you know that. And _Jean_ is also one of my closest friends. I've known him since ages ago and I've never seen him so . . . the way you stood up to yourself – Jean's been tryna do the same thing for himself, but you're part – uh, he needs – shoot. I think you should see him."

 

"Me? See Jean?"

 

“I think it'll do the two of you some good.”

 

“But I am. I am good.”

 

She smiles, “We're not gonna let you trick us anymore, Marco. _Especially_ me since I know all about love and the faces people make when they miss a romantic partner!”

 

“Okay, that's fair. But I'm not tricking you. Why do you want me to see him?”

 

As if waiting all along to answer my question, a voice coming from down the hall of mirrors calls out for her. It echos against cheap glass and metal floors, twisting the sound, but I know those octaves and the way they make my heart squeeze and knees shake – even when they're only saying Ymir was done buying all the junk she'd ordered them to get.

 

"J-Jean? He's here? Why's he here?"

 

"Just to enjoy the celebration," Historia looks at me now, telling me with her expression that she hadn't planned this, but I keep my eyes down the hall, waiting for him to catch me red faced where I stood, "Um, Rei said he heard you guys fightin' but I didn't really pay him any mind since Jean's got more of a bark than bite. But . . . is it true? 'Cause if it is, the others can fix things later if ya catch my drift."

 

I do catch her drift. She's talking about beating Jean up and that's the last thing I want.

 

"No!" I throw my hands in front of me as if trying to tame some sort of animal, "Don't hurt him! He didn't do nothing, I promise!"

 

"Well, Marco, what kinda reaction is that? What did he _do_ to you back at my house? Or more like, what did you do to each other?"

 

"N-Nothing, well, he didn't do nothin' to me. But I did. I did something bad to _him_."

 

"Like what?"

 

"I—"

 

"Historia who are you . . . ?"

 

Jean's voice was getting closer.

 

We stare at one another now – her face as still and anxious as mine, but then something registers into her and she tilts her head towards the hallway. She yells at Jean before he makes it to us, "I'm here, but tell her I'll be out in a sec, please! I'm just fixin' up my runny make—"

 

I knew what she was trying to do, she wanted to shoo Jean away so I could escape despite her confusion on why I wanted to do it. And I was ready to let her lie for me, except, Jean wasn't. We heard his feet stop walking momentarily before he ran, feet hitting the metal floors like bullets.

 

He sees me first, eyes wide, eyebrows raised up to the mighty ceiling and mouth slightly open. He's different.

 

Not only in his clothing. Finally, I'm witnessing the real Jean, the one who likes ripped jeans, black and sleeveless shirts and black Chucks. His hair isn't beaten to death with a comb or gel, it's tousled with cowlicks and one too many hands-through-hair stress coping mechanisms. And he's different in ways you can't see, but feel. Like how I can feel him burning through me.

 

"I knew it," Jean sighed, staring at me like if I wasn't real, "I knew I heard your voice."

 

Déjà Vu hits me upside the head, because before I know it, I'm running down what's left of the mirror walls and run face first into the next rooms 'funniness'. This one's got what looks like colorful punching bags hanging from the ceiling with different, bright pictures on all of them. My clumsy feet carry me as fast as they can through it, but I struggle real hard.

 

Nobody's ever made me feel a million emotions at one time, and now that my dam is gone, there's nothing to stop me from acting before thinking.

 

"Marco!"

 

I hear Historia calling me from way behind, but I don't stop. I don't think I know how. All I concentrate on is hearing my chest huffing and puffing and my breath begging for control that I can't supply. Facing the reality of my life as a child in the hands of my father? That was do-able. Facing Jean? Not so much.

 

And there was a perfectly good reason for that.

 

I had and will always have people who will be there with me when the going gets tough. Life is hard sometimes – a lot of the times – we all know this and experience the hardships in different waves, that's why we help each other when we can. But love? Man, you're on your own on that one. It's only your heart and another that's allowed to see if you're just as crazy about them as they are about you.

 

I think that's why Jean is the only one chasing after me. He wants to see. It's either that _or_ he really does want to smash my face in. Either way I don't want to find out which one he's trying to accomplish.

 

"Fuck! Marco, will you quit running away from me?!"

 

"No!"

 

I exit the punching bag room first and almost swallow my tongue when I see the next obstacle. It's a net. Just a net leading upwards that we have to climb until we reach a platform that then leads to a slide.

 

"Why not?!"

 

The sound of his voice is right on my heels, causing me to throw myself onto the rough rope without second guessing a thing. I feel like a cross between a new born baby spider, unable to crawl without getting frightened that the wobbly net will break and toss me down, down, down to the ground.

 

I can feel sweat trickling from my neck and down to my back. I'm at a great disadvantage since I'm wearing a dress with plastic wings, but even though my meager muscles are burning and my hair is trying to jump in my mouth, I don't stop, not even to catch my shallow breath, I don't do it because I'm ashamed to face him.

 

But it seems fate still isn't on my side despite the huge hurdle I'd gone through so many days ago. And I guess, I can't really blame it for taking a shorter time to teach me a lesson since even I feel a bit childish for the lengths I'm going to avoid Jean.

 

I know better than anyone else that sometimes we're forced to face things that'll make us grow up quickly – and it's scary – but now that one of my twigs of a leg fell through the net, I'm stuck and don't really have a choice in the matter.

 

The net shakes like crazy while I try to ungracefully free myself, making me feel like a fly waiting to get tangled by the spider. I know it's too late for me when the vibrations stop. 

 

"I don't hate you."

 

I don't look at him.

 

“I don't hate you,” Jean repeats, breathing, trying his best to situate himself beside me without his arms looking like jelly against the rope, "You know I don't hate you, Marco."

 

I clear my throat just in case my voice wants to show how pathetic I feel, "No. I don't know that, Jean."

 

"Well, I'm telling you right now I don't!"

 

"A-And why not? You're supposed to."

 

"I have no reason to!"

 

We're still trying to catch our breath, chests rising and falling almost at the same exact time and the gesture feels too intimate. He has to know how much my heart wants to burst.

 

I fumble out of my own trap, groaning a little at the pain against my thigh as I sit as comfortable as I can. And I notice this Jean really is different. I'd never seen him be this patient with anyone before, but the old him is in there, too. The fighter, the one that does what he likes to get what he wants.

 

“I'm not leaving here until you say something,” Jean threatens, but it sounds more like a plea and it makes my chest sting.

 

I give in way easier than I liked to admit.

 

"You should hate me because I—I kissed you when I knew you weren't ready to, um, to say you wanted to be kissin' boys. And I know how hard it is to come to terms with that, especially more for you since your family isn't so acceptin' of people like me . . . Also for making you admit your cousin has a husband."

 

"Oh," He says. I dare myself to look at him and that's when I notice the green, fading bruise on one of his sharp cheekbones. The pained expression on his face smooths out like if he can't even feel it anymore, "That's it?"

 

"What?"

 

He lets out a content sigh, even cracks a grin, "I thought you were going to say I hated you because _you_ hated me. I was afraid you were never going to talk to me again after what I did to you."

 

"I wasn't going to," I admit and he laughs. Laughs! I don't know if I'll ever understand people, "But what do you mean? You didn't do nothin' to me, Jean."

 

"Oh yes I did, I tried forcing you to face shit you shouldn't have—"

 

"Like what I did."

 

"No," He sternly says, rubbing the back of his neck, "No, what I did was much, much worse, Marco and I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have butted in your life and I'm sorry I did. I made you have a panic attack for fucks—for damn sake's! I called so many times to see how you were doing but it always went straight to voicemail."

 

So that'd been him.

 

"Okay, I see your point, but you didn't give me a panic attack on purpose, Jean."

 

"I know. But after that I still kept going at it like an idiot—I tried forcing you to talk and say what was bothering you like if it were my right and—!" He inhales and calms his tone, "And I'm sorry I hurt you."

 

"I forgive you."

 

He gawks at me, probably expecting me to yell or something, "That's it?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Just like that?"

 

I nod, now it's my turn to feel like laughing, "Just like that."

 

"But . . . why? I had this whole speech ready."

 

"I don't think you'll ever understand how much I needed what your footsteps did to me—well, I 'spose our conversation could've been handled better, but since when has life given us the easy way out? For some reason you had to be the one to push me into a breakdown," He flinches at that and looks away, "I'm still . . . I'm still acceptin' things, admittin' things to myself and it's hard, it's really hard, but if I've got people willing to wait for me to catch up, I know I'll be alright."

 

"Yeah," Jean visibly swallows, "I know you'll be alright, too. You're a strong person, Marco, even if you don't feel it at the moment. Especially for forgiving me like that, I was willing to do anything to make you feel better."

 

"I thought you wanted to hit me, that's kinda why I ran."

 

"I'd never hit you! Why would you even think that?"

 

"Well because, aren't you even a _little_ angry at me for plantin' one on you?"

 

Jean's face turns pink so fast I think my vision is playing tricks on me. He tries turning the other direction, but we're already having trouble balancing so he can't move or hide anywhere. I guess we could try climbing away, but something tells me he doesn't want to just yet. And I don't want to either now that the attention is all on him.

 

"Of course I'm not mad about you doing that," He peaks up at me for a second, cursing when he finds I'm still staring at him, "Dammit. Remember how I told you I thought you were a girl the first time we met?"

 

I nod, he burns through me again.

 

"Well, I knew you weren't a girl two seconds after seeing your face. And ever since then I've been wanting you to 'plant one on me' every-everyday," He finds my hand on the rope despite the blood spreading to his ears and neck, and I trust him and let him slip between the spaces of my fingers.

 

"You like me," I whisper, sounding surprised by my own statement.

 

"Yeah. I like you. _A lot_."

 

My arms flood with goosebumps at hearing the words coming out of his own mouth. I can feel how much he means it, it terrifies me.

 

"I like you a lot, too."

 

"I don't believe you."

 

"And why not?"

 

"Because you said you weren't ever going to talk to me again. Not that I blame you, though."

 

"That was before I knew you didn't want to beat me up," I can't help my laughing at his pout, "How do I make you believe me?"

 

Something sparks in the way he looks at me. It's mischievous and coy all at the same time and it makes my stomach flutter.

 

"Eat giant turkey legs with me," He begs, "and greasy hot dogs and funnel cakes and shit loads of sweet ass cotton candy. Watch me sing – even though I'm not good at it – and ride the Ferris wheel with me before the sun sets and-and-and . . . Let me enjoy the rest of the summer with you before I go, Marco."

 

Before he goes. I'd forgotten his time here was limited. I'd forgotten he was only sent here as punishment and that once autumn comes ringing, he'll be gone like the memories of my bad days. And I'd forgotten how nothing – bad or good – really lasts.

 

But before I can have another thought to think, or a second to respond, an announcement comes out on the stage made out of hay down the street where most of the people are at. A man yells his important announcement into the blaring microphone, his words make my nerves freeze and my heart pounds all over again. The derby race is about to begin.

 

~~~

 

Me and Jean are running like headless chickens when we run out the fun house two minutes later to look for our friends. When we realize we're concentrating on holding each others hands far more than we are seeing with our eyes, we decide with red skin to split up instead, because what's a derby race without your crew of motivators and helpers anyway?

 

I find Hanji and his friends instead, who say they'd been looking for _me_ near a lemonade stand fussing with one another about my whereabouts. He yells at me to go where the other derby racers have their cars since any minute now they'll start hauling them up Sina hill if they haven't already – and knowing how disorganized things become during the Fourth of July, I already know my cars up on the hill and it saves me time from thinking.

 

They wish me good luck and run off to get a good spot to watch, leaving me to run the opposite direction. It may not seem like it, or maybe it does, but running in a dress feels like an accident waiting to happen. I have to pile the thing up to my torso, watching as everyone is scurrying to the bottom of the street where they'll fight to get the perfect view of us when we come trickling down the hill.

 

I pass the knickknack stands, it's where the older people who have lots of nice time to themselves sell all the things their wrinkled hands have given birth to. Homemade wind chimes tinker when I fly by, I can smell delicious oatmeal cookies next then something earthy like clay softly touches my nose.

 

In the next booth full of beaded jewelry, I turn left and almost come to a dead stop. I'm going against the crowd on the sidewalk and street, if I stay here it'll take me ten minutes just to reach the top. And like I guessed, our derby cars were no where in sight.

 

Bringing back the frog in me, I hop out of the sidewalk and over bushes of flowers, landing on freshly mowed lawn with patches of dry dirt. There are obstacles of picnic blankets, folding chairs and portable grills here, but it's not as heavily populated as the other side. Plus, I think it better to trip over a bowl of mashed potatoes and not a four year old child.

 

“Hey! Watch where you're going miss!”

 

“I'm sorry!”

 

My heart is beating so loudly in my ears, I can hear it trying to speak to me. It takes everything I have not to ignore it like before, to not be afraid of what it has to say or what it wants me to understand. My legs almost buckle, my breath catches but . . . but I listen.

 

The voice is nothing more than a gentle whisper, but it's louder than the hollering all around me, louder than anything I've ever heard before. It doesn't talk to me about Dad, but I can feel him in the air I'm swallowing and in the abuse the hill is giving my legss. He's here, but he isn't what's important. What's important is, what matter's is, what's worth it is . . . _me_.

 

"Marco! There you are!!"

 

I turn to find Reiner running to me with something in his hands. I let him catch up before we start bolting once again, leaving my questions for later. I don't know why we're always so unprepared despite always preparing for things.

 

We don't say much on our journey, not that we really can since our mouths look the way fishes out of water do, but I know Rei wants to say something. He looks upset, and not the kind that gets him riled up because of the heat. It's something else, something about his emotions. And then it clicks together like two pieces of a puzzle.

 

"I like him, Reiner."

 

He's quiet for a second, then groans, "I know, Marco. I know."

 

"And you have to say sorry."

 

I feel his eyes on me and catch a glimpse of his faze, but we're almost halfway there and I don't want to break my concentration.

 

“ _Me_?” He asks, “Apologize? For what? What'd I do now? I didn't do anythin', I don't know _what_ you're talking about.”

 

I don't say anything, but he knows our upcoming talk is gonna have something to do with buying Jean raw steak for his bruised cheek. Reiner gives out another sound of distress, confirming my thoughts, but we stay quiet until we reach the top of the winding hill.

 

That's when everything starts happening too fast. I never get the chance to ask how everyone beat us here.

 

“Fucking finally! What took y'all so long?”

 

Connie and Bert are on their knees putting final touches to my car while Eren stands behind them judging it all. Ymir is angrily dabbing Elmer's glue to loose cotton balls and Annie is a few ways ahead, scoping what kind of cars are here and hopefully not planning on sabotaging any of them.

 

I see Armin and Mikasa parked in Connie's truck near a stop sign, once the race is about to begin they'll have to be out of here quick to find a spot to watch.

 

"Rei! The halo!" Historia yells while Sasha pats down my creased dress. I never noticed when she'd gotten there.

 

"Halo?" I ask, but nobody answers.

 

Reiner throws her the golden hair piece and she swiftly catches it. Her tiny hands brush the hair sticking to my sweaty face then places the Halloween décor on my head and grins.

 

"Perfect. Now you look like a real angel."

 

"TEN MINUTES UNTIL THE RACE BEGINS! TEEEEN MINUTES UNTIL THE RACE BEGINS!"

 

We hear the announcer and cringe at the mics shrieks.

 

"You're gonna do great out there!" Sasha bounces off the ground and slaps my arm.

 

“Thanks, have you seen—“

 

“If you don't see us down there, it's because Eren tried killing someone for a spot and we've all been arrested again,” Historia laughs and hits me, too, before leaving.

 

I think they all have it in for me, because one after the other they smack my back or squeeze me too hard. Ymir is the only one who punches me, but I think it hurts her more when my shoulder bone crashes against her knuckles.

 

"It don't matter if you win or lose, you hear?" Connie asks, taking a step back to follow the others in his truck, “Doing this is just . . . practice.”

 

“Wait”, I call out, watching him walk backwards with a goofy grin on his face. I don't want them to leave so quick, everything is always moving to fast! I don't want to do this alone! I thought I was doing this for myself, well maybe I am, but it's also for them and for proving a point that I'd forgotten the meaning to.

 

"Take a look at what we added on the side, you'll feel better! . . . I hope!"

 

Before I can stop him, he turns around and sprints to the truck where the rest are waiting. They give me a few good luck honks and cries before leaving, making their reckless descend full of crude warnings to civilians on their way. I stop seeing them long before their voices disappear.

 

I wait a few more seconds to do what Connie had told me, taking my time to watch as the other racers try to fix their costumes or carts or both, like if it could save me from ever hopping into mine. My stiff legs carry me to the side of my cloud, and there, expecting me is another surprise that steals my breath. Cardboard cut out in letters spell the words _FREE VISIT TO HEAVEN_ on top of unreliable fluff.

 

"A bit morbid, isn't it?"

 

Jean.

 

He gives me a wobbly smile when I spin around to find him, sweating and holding onto my racing number with restless fingers. Somehow, he looks a hundred times more nervous than I am, and I almost tell him the others have left him behind, but I stop.

 

“I don't know how to feel about it yet.”

 

“Want me to take it down?”

 

“No,” I watch him peel the strip of plastic off my number, “No, it's alright. I might like it.”

 

“Okie dokie. Uh, hey, where did everyone go? I'm gone for like two seconds and then they disappear.”

 

“They-They left already.”

 

“ _What?_ Are you fucking kidding me? How am I going to—“ He huffs, stripping the plastic film off my sticker before quickly smoothing it out on my chest, “I'll—I'll deal with them later. Ok, here's your number, there are goggles in your seat if you want them—I really gotta get going now, alright?”

 

“Please don't.”

 

He freezes for a second, watching me before he decides something's not right. I shout in my head what I'm feeling, and like I he'd heard me, he reaches out to touch me only to remember we're in public and drops them to his sides. If only the world could love us for a few minutes today.

 

“You don't have anything to worry about,” He coos, ”We're going to be waiting down there for you and no matter what happens, you know we're proud of what you're doing. Even if that brute of your friend did kinda pressure you into this.”

 

I try to smile but it doesn't come out, “I've never done anythin' for myself, like this, before. I've always had Rei or Connie there doin' things for me and I know this is just a race, but I-I can't help feelin' scared, Jean . . . I've been wantin' to do this so bad for so many years. What if it doesn't make me feel better?”

 

“Then that's perfectly alright. You can find something else and if _that_ doesn't work then you find another, and another, and another. One thing won't fix you, Marco, I'll tell you that right now. It's all these little steps that'll eventually get you to where you want to be . . .”

 

He gives me an example by taking a literal step towards me, and continues, “The first one is always the hardest, but then after that,” His hand softly grabs mine, “you'll slowly start getting the hang of things.”

 

“FIVE MINUTES, EVERYONE, FIIIIVE MINUTES!”

 

“If you want me to stay up here, I can stay. As a matter of fact, you don't even have to do this if you don't want to. There's always next year, right?”

 

“Well, yeah, but . . .” _But it wouldn't be the same_. It'll never be the same if I don't do it now because then that means taking another year to deal with my remorse and my quiet anger and pain and I _can't_ wait that long again.

 

“Marco? But what?”

 

“But never mind. Jean, you should go.”

 

His eyes spark, “Are you sure?”

 

“No, not really, but I'm—oh!”

 

Jean lets go of my hand to engulf me in a tremendous embrace. Almost instantly I can feel the summer heat radiating off of his flushed skin and it makes me close my eyes. He could be summer if he wanted. He could even melt away the ice inside of me layer by layer until it's my turn to try it alone if that's how depression worked.

 

“I'll be watching you,” Jean promises when he steps back, taking comfort with him.

 

I swallow, trying not to stare so much at him and his pretty eyes, but fail. I can get used to not being afraid of how piercing they are, “O-Okay.”

 

He notices what I'm feeling and smiles before taking another step back. But he's also just as easy to read and I know he wants to kiss me . . . but we both know we can't right now and so we just watch the shine in our eyes do the talking. Maybe later there'll be lots of time.

 

There's a pop somewhere down the line that snaps us out of our daze, Jean gives me a last wave before he sprints to the safety of the sidewalk and then down where he disappears, and where in a few I'll see him seeing _me_. Someone waiting for _me_.

 

I take a deep breath and get my feet to take me to my car. Marilyn Monroe says nothing when I sit on her, but my shin cries when I accidentally scrape it on my way in. Very carefully, I put on my googles as best I can without ruining Historia's hard work and then I wait. But not for long.

 

“TIME'S UP EVERYONE! GET IN YOUR VEHICALES OR GET RIGHT ON OUT!!”

 

For the first time since making my way up here, I glance around at who I'm going against. I think I'm the only teenager, but I can't tell because of what everyone else is wearing. There's people dressed as the McDonald's clown in a burger car, Fred Flinstone, an actual chicken head where the car is the body and more disturbing creations.

 

I would've looked ridiculous if I'd gone normal the way I'd planned.

 

“IS EVERYONE READY?!”

 

We can hear the friends and family that had stayed behind the other racers to help cheer for them. I know there's no one physically behind me right now, but the weight of my loneliness is an ounce lighter than before.

 

When the festival is over and we all go home, I won't be alone. When the summer comes to an end and Jean leaves, I won't be alone. When we all graduate next year and move on to different things, I know I won't be alone even when I am.

 

“ON YOUR MARK . . .”

 

They say our loved ones are always with us even once they're gone. I never really put much thought into that because it never felt true, but now that I'm on a cloud and I've got wings and a temporary halo, I think it's possible for me to reach out to them.

 

“. . . GET SET . . .”

 

I've got a thirty visit to another dimension, another galaxy called heaven from way up here, and I won't let it go to waste.

 

“ . . . GOOOO!!”

 

There's a another pop, this one a gun, and then we're off. I picture the faces of everyone who loves me down at the hill and smile as I fall, sharing the image with someone who I haven't spoken to in a very, very long time.

 

She's the wind that kisses my forehead when I take in a deep breath and whisper.

 

“Hi, Mom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Someday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iZ-c3M2aKsM)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> .  
> .  
> .  
> (check out Akira Kosemura's other stuff, he's my favorite composer of all time:)
> 
> ps. thank you so much for reading my little fic, our journey was long thanks to my procrastinating self and I don't deserve how patient you guys were! But here you have the end! and it's a happily ever after as promised and thanks again <333


End file.
